


December Tidings

by spnblargh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Christmas, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 29,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's twenty-five days 'til Christmas. That's twenty-five days to get their shit together and do this thing right for once. Dean/Cas Advent Calendar 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing one chapter everyday up until Christmas. Each chapter must be 500-1000 words in length. This is a challenge I set myself to encourage me to write more frequently. Once the whole thing has been posted to completion, I'll go back and do a big edit. Enjoy!

December brings with it a cool change, but there's still no sign of snow. Perhaps that's why Cas is so put out this morning. Dean can't find any other reason for Cas keeping his distance, taking to the front porch with an Earl Grey and a cantankerous expression.  
  
It never snowed back at the bunker. The climate was right for it, but snow never fell within a five kilometre radius of the place. Probably a side effect from all of the warding or whatever. Just another Men of Letters mystery, really.

Out here, though, it should come eventually. Just gotta give it time.  
  
Dean slouches against the brick wall, staring out at the clear sky. Might be nice to hang a wreath up or decorate the place in lights. Sam would like that; they've never celebrated Christmas the way you're supposed to. They're able to do things like that now, so they might as well take advantage of it. Man, Dean turned forty this year. It took forty years for him to finally have a proper Christmas. That's pretty damn pathetic.  
  
He glances at Cas, who's seated at the far side of the porch. The bench is made of cheap timber and supported with metal bars covered in patches of rust. Cas' got an obsession with decorating every available surface with dorky cushions, but this one has manages to get by un-cushioned. Cas sits stiffly, his back ramrod straight. He doesn't look it but he's probably feeling the chill just a little.  
  
Maybe he should bring him a blanket. Or a beer.

Actually, he should probably just go back inside and leave Cas be.  
  
Against his better judgement, he walks closer, slowly. "Hey."  
  
Cas doesn't look at him. "Hello, Dean."  
  
A beat. "You okay, buddy?"  
  
Cas inclines his head slightly, still not meeting his gaze. "I think so," he replies calmly.  
  
Cas says things like that sometimes, completely unaware of the way it makes Dean's stomach clench. It's hard to get a read on Cas these days — not that it was particularly easy when the guy was packing Phenomenal Cosmic Powers either — and if Cas can't puzzle out the shit he's feeling either, then all Dean can do is stand by and fret quietly.

Dean's close enough now that he can see that the mug beside him is empty. Cas' unoccupied hands are in his lap, sans gloves. The skin is tinged pink. He wonders what it'd be like to cover those hands with his own; imagines the expression that might colour Cas' face. Would it be surprise? Confusion? Rejection? Maybe he'd smile and it would actually reach his eyes. That'd be a sight to see.

He shakes himself slightly. "Didja, uh, wake up on the wrong side of the bed or what?"

Cas does look at Dean now, quizzical. "No? I mean, I'm not sure which is the correct side of the bed to wake up on, but—"  
  
"Did you have a bad sleep?" Dean corrects himself. He's getting better at Dean's colloquialisms but they still go over his head from time to time.  
  
Cas nods thoughtfully. "Yes. Possibly." He looks at the ground, at the uneven tiles. Brown weeds are creeping through the cracks. "Sorry, I'm not very...talkative today."  
  
"Well, you ain't Mr. Chatterbox any other day of the year," Dean claps him on the shoulder, hand lingering. "I'll leave you to it, dude."  
  
He heads back inside. Maybe he can pester Sam into coming into town with him to get one of those stupid wreaths. He sure as hell won't be braving the mall alone, not this time of year.


	2. December 2

He and Sam had agreed to head into town today to acquire a few decorations. Dean hadn't bothered extending an invitation to Cas; the guy has a phobia of large crowds. Angry people rampaging from one side of the mall to the other just doesn't appeal to him, which is understandable. Even Dean's dreading their shopping expedition a little, but in the name of holiday cheer, he'll soldier through.

Except that Sam's having a rough morning. Wrenching an unwilling angel out of your body wasn't exactly easy, and considering Ezekiel's half-assed job at healing him from the Trials, Sam still feels the after effects even now. His joints are constantly swollen, agonising despite Sam's tough facade, and sometimes he's so nauseated that he can't keep any food down.

Today, his left hand has curled up, fingernails biting into his palm. It won't unclench, no matter how much Sam tries to coax it open. Dean hands him a bundled up ice pack, to which Sam rolls his eyes but accepts begrudgingly.

"C'mon, Dean. No need to be clucking around here."

"I ain't _mothering you_ , okay? I'm not clucking around anything." He shoves Sam playfully in the arm, but then his expression turns serious. "Is it just the hand or what? You sick, too?"

"Dude, enough." Sam gingerly presses the ice into his joints, hissing in relief. His fingers are red and pudgy, swelled up like sausages and refusing to do anything but sit there, curled up and useless. "I'm feeling fine. I mean, the hand hurts like hell, but that's it."

_"That's it?"_

"Well," Sam pauses, hesitant. "I feel pretty...dizzy, I guess. And I may have hurled this morning."

"Of course." Dean gets up, paces around Sam's room. Like when they lived in the bunker, the walls are boring and undecorated. His brother is seemingly incapable of properly settling in anywhere. He turns to stare at Sam, who's propped up with lumpy pillows, nursing his hand to his chest. Dean frowns. "I mean, you're not getting any worse, right? You tell me if you are."

Sam huffs. "Yes, _Dean_ , but it's like I've told you before, I'm—I'm doing _good_. I mean, three years ago I was coughing up blood and passing out all the time. A bit of arthritis and stomach cramps is _nothing_."

Dean stares, deadpan. "You can't control your left hand."

Sam smiles sheepishly, patting the offending hand. "I know, but...this just feels like I'm, uh. I don't know. Like I'm just getting old."

"You're thirty-six, dude."

"Dean, knock it off," he grumbles, readjusting himself on the bed. "You know Ezekiel did a number on me."

That shuts Dean up pretty quick. Sighing, he starts pacing again, between the wardrobe and the desk against the opposite wall. There's a photo frame on top of the otherwise barren desk: the first day that the three of them moved into this place; to their new home. That's what Dean refers to it as, anyway. He's still not sure about the other two.

Sam clears his throat. "Why don't you take Cas with you?"

"You know him," Dean grunts. "Hates people. He's been in his room all morning. Door's locked."

"What does he _do_ in there?"

"Beats me. Catching up on Gossip Girl?" Dean shrugs helplessly. "He doesn't tell me jack, man."

"Alright," Sam exhales. "Well, we'll go to town tomorrow. I'll probably be feeling better by then."

"Sure. Sounds like a plan."

"I'm gonna read and have a nap now, so..."

He recognises the dismissal. "Right, right. You, uh, you do that." Dean turns back, one foot out the door. "You want me to bring you a bucket, or—?"

" _Out,_ Dean," Sam says firmly, and Dean raises his hands in surrender, obliging him.

They're still learning how to operate around each other. How to be brothers without all of the self-sacrificing and the crushing dependency. They'd been each other's everything for so long that it was drowning them both.

Sam wants things outside of Dean, and that's okay. He eventually wants to find someone to settle down with; have his apple pie life and actually get to eat it. Dean, well, he's not sure what he wants. He spends every waking moment cleaning, cooking or fixing up the house — anything to keep his mind off answering any of the important questions.

He passes by Cas' room, the door still resolutely locked. Cas' quiet thuds and bumps from within are at least an indication that he hasn't flown the coop yet.

Dean stands in the middle of the lounge room, contemplative. He glances around, analysing every corner of the place. He could set up the tree in between the front door and the far left corner, or perhaps near the dining table or next to the TV. Maybe he could get the fireplace going and decorate it with stockings, each one labelled with their names in cliché glitter font. So many options. It's a little overwhelming, to be honest.

But first, he should clean up. Get prepared for tomorrow's adventure. Taking a deep breath, Dean gets to work.


	3. December 3

An impressed whistle rings out, drawing Dean's attention towards the kitchen. Sam's leaning against the doorway, already dressed and clutching a mug of one of his fancy-smancy herbal teas. Both hands seem to be functioning today. "Dude, congrats," he comments, gesturing around the room.

Dean grins, puffing out his chest proudly. "You are _welcome_."

Dean may have gone a bit crazy yesterday. Once he starts cleaning it's like he's _possessed_ , wielding a mop and bucket as capably as he handles a gun. He had dusted, vacuumed, sprayed and wiped. He had rearranged the TV cabinet, alphabetised their steadily growing DVD collection, and bleached away the mould peppering the ceiling. He'd only just managed to restrain himself from charging into the kitchen and re-organising their herbs and spices draw.

"Least we got a clear area to work with now," Dean says, standing by his brother and looking across the room. "We'll be able to cram as much Christmas junk in here as humanly possible. Or inhumanly, knowing us."

"So you want to go all out, then?" Sam looks at him, a bemused smile on his face. "Pine tree, lights, mistletoe, the whole shebang?"

"You're damn right." Dean gives him an uncomfortable look. "We'll skip out on the mistletoe, though. I'm not gonna kiss that ugly mug of yours."

"I'm not stupid enough to be caught under it." Sam lifts his eyebrows. He's got that _look_ in his eye. "On the other hand, _Cas_ might be."

"He'll probably think the roof's sprouting weeds or something," Dean mutters, derailing the conversation as quickly as possible. Not having this conversation today, Sam. "Anyway, shall we roll? It's still pretty early, but, uh, parking's gonna be a pain in the ass. I can feel it."

Sam takes a deep gulp of his tea. "Sure. Gimme five."

As they're leaving, they find Cas out on the porch again. It's colder today, so he's bundled up in one of the fraying blankets from the linen cupboard. He gives them a little wave; shows them a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. Dean worries about that smile all the way into town.

At the mall, it's absolute chaos. They had to park about two blocks down the road because the car park is overflowing. Inside, people are milling about in thick crowds with agitated faces. Mothers are pushing prams and trolleys simultaneously while kids screech and men walk around in their business suits looking all self-righteous and important. To top it all off, _Silent Night_ is the backdrop to this nightmare. The whole situation is giving Dean a migraine.

"Know what? I changed my mind. I'm not cut out for this."

Sam rolls his eyes. "We're here now, Dean. Let's just do it."

Manoeuvring through the throngs of consumers takes time and patience, but eventually they find themselves in Target, snatching a big red basket as they enter. Sam takes the lead, and Dean tries not to notice the way he limps slightly. He gets bad swelling in his left knee — a daily sort of thing — and Dean tries not to let the guilt get to him.  

The Christmas section is immense, all bright colours and garland. Dean picks up a funny looking penguin wearing a Santa hat and holding a tiny little guitar. He presses its flipper and the toy starts moving, strumming the guitar and shaking its head from side to side, singing, " _Deck the halls with boughs of holly!"_

"We're totally getting this."

" _No_ ," Sam tells him firmly, confiscating the toy and placing it back on the shelf. It continues to wiggle about and sing at them. "Something less noisy."

"You are _no_ fun," Dean pouts.

Sam spends an embarrassingly long time deciding on tinsel colours. He holds up the green, then the red, the gold, the purple and the silver, until Dean eventually tells him to just grab all of them. "But we should try and get a colour scheme, Dean. You can't just throw any of them together. It'll look ridiculous."

" _You_ look ridiculous. Now c'mon, we're taking all of them. Let's move along."

They locate the Santa hats and a pair of flashing reindeer antlers, and Sam finds a huge display of snow-globes. While Sam's not looking, Dean sneaks the singing penguin into the basket, covering it up with Santa stockings and a variety pack of baubles.  

They need a tree topper, too. Dean chuckles, holding up a golden star and a fluffy-winged angel. "Which one, Sammy? I just can't decide."

Sam stares at him, unimpressed. "I think Cas will set the tree on fire if you don't choose the star."

It's a fair point. Dean hurls the star in the basket and hangs the angel back up on the rack, chuckling to himself.

The checkout line is as long as the River Nile, which gives them plenty of time to argue over the Christmas tree situation. "There are some perfectly good trees in here, Dean!"

"Yeah, but they're _fake_."

"So what? You want to actually chop down a tree? That's not cool, man. You're killing it."

"I said we were doing Christmas properly this year, okay? That means no short cuts. No fake trees. We're gonna cut down a tree, stick it in our house, and we're gonna be freaking merry about it."

Sam huffs, throwing his hands up in the air. "Maybe Cas should get a say on this."

"And if he sides with me?"

"Then we'll kill a tree," Sam retorts.

"Sounds good." Dean directs his attention to the frazzled sales associate, grinning. "Hey, how's it going?"

By the time they're out of the store, they're both exhausted. It's only been an hour but that's more than enough for the Winchesters today. They cradle the goods to their chests, half-jogging down to the Impala, working up a sweat despite the low temperate. Once the trunk's loaded up — the tinsel and holly mixed in with the shotguns and holy water — they hit the road again.

About five minutes from home, they go over a pothole, and the bump is enough to set off the toy penguin, its carols heard even from the trunk.

Sam groans. Dean just spends the rest of the drive home laughing.


	4. December 4

Determined, Dean raps on the bedroom door, the sound loud enough to echo down the hallway. He waits, foot tapping impatiently, until the door eventually swings inward. Cas stares at him, hair dishevelled in a truly tragic (and attractive) manner. It's close to ten in the morning but it looks like he's only been up for a minute or two.   
  
"Dean," he greets, slightly bewildered.  
  
"You won't be staying in here all day," Dean informs him, folding his arms defensively. "Not again."  
  
Cas massages his forehead, then rubs the grit out of his eyes. "Why?" he asks grumpily.  
  
"I'm not having you mopin' around in here when you could be helping us set up for Christmas."  
  
"Christmas?" Cas cocks his head to the side. "I didn't realise we'd be celebrating this year."  
  
"Yeah, well, this year's gonna be different," Dean says firmly, bumping Cas on the shoulder with his fist. Cas groans at the impact. Dean grins at him. "C'mon, we're putting you to work today. Get dressed."  
  
"Fine," Cas grumbles. "Shower first, though."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Might want to brush your teeth, too, Morning Breath." And with that, Dean spins on his heel to check on his breakfast: a ham and cheese omelette bubbling away in the frypan. It smells damn good.  
  
Today's gonna be a great day, he can feel it.  
  
Sam's in the lounge room, sipping his tea and stretched out on one of the squishy leather armchairs. They'd purchased a full lounge set, complete with a three-seater and two armchairs, from a second hand furniture shop in town. Sam and Cas have been obsessed with the place and keep picking up all sorts of random junk from there — a barely functioning grandfather clock being their most recent purchase.  
  
Sam raises his hand in greeting. "Is Cas going to help?"  
  
"Damn straight he is. Not giving him a choice in the matter," Dean replies flatly. Sam snorts.  
  
Cas emerges a good fifteen minutes later, freshly boiled black coffee in hand. He's in jeans and a well-worn Henley — previously owned by Dean, most likely — and he hasn't bothered shaving. Cas can be pretty damn lazy when it comes to his physical appearance.  
  
Cas looks at them expectantly. "So, shall we start?"  
  
"We were just waiting on you, Sleeping Beauty." Dean gets to his feet, marches over towards the pile of shopping bags near the front door. He and Sam had dumped it all there yesterday after their little retail adventure. "Alright, let's get to it."

They set aside the baubles and the star on the kitchen counter, figuring they'll be acquiring a tree any day now. Dean puts Cas in charge of the tinsel, a job that seems to cause him much distress, while he and Sam head outside to start rigging up the lights. Sam insisted on getting a bunch of solar lights, much to Dean's annoyance, but he managed to convince him to mix it up with a few regular lights, too.

They heave the solar lights up along the edge of the roof, chucking the solar panel on top in the hopes that it'll draw in enough sunlight. Considering the time of year, Dean doubts it'll get much power, but Sam's optimistic. Dean weaves some of the multi-coloured fairy lights into one of the large bushes near the porch, trailing the cable around the back of the house towards a power outlet. It's a frustratingly slow process, mostly because he and Sam keep bickering about which colours go where.

Eventually they retreat into the house to find Cas in much the same state that they left him in: lost and confused. Taking pity on him, they take some of the tinsel out of his hands — the silver one having somehow wrapped itself around Cas' ankle in three solid loops — and show him how it's done. He seems to relax after that, a small smile making its way across his cheeks. Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

Cas carefully places the three Santa stockings above the unused fireplace. He stands back, analysing his work, thoughtful. "Will we be using the fireplace this year?"

Dean turns to him, the singing penguin chirping in his arms, much to Sam's chagrin. "That depends, Cas. Do you _want_ us to use the fireplace this year?"

Cas seems to curl in on himself, overwhelmed by the complexity of such a decision. After a moment, however, he takes a deep breath and stands tall. "Yes. Yes, I would like that very much."

Dean nods. Beside him, Sam is grinning. "Alright, man, you're the boss. This year's gonna be different, like I said, so...let's get that fireplace going, huh?"

Cas practically glows for the rest of the day.


	5. December 5

It's a Thursday today, which means Cas is a little quirkier than usual. Being the angel of Thursday for several millennia seems to have left a mark on him, even if he walks around without his Grace these days.

Dean's woken up around five in the morning to the crashing and clanking sounds of Cas attempting to operate something in the kitchen. _Probably the soup machine_ _again_. Dean sighs.

He hurls the bedcovers off, trudges through the cool, early morning air and has to make a pitstop in the bathroom to retrieve his dressing gown. It's fucking _freezing_ at this hour. In the kitchen, however, Cas is already dressed, trench coat draped over his shoulders like a makeshift cape. It's the damn soup machine, _of course_. The counter is splashed with tomato puree, but Cas at least has the audacity to look sheepish. He's got red spots all over his shirt and a big red blob on the tip of his nose.

"My apologies. Did I wake you?"

" _Yes_ , actually," Dean grumbles. "You were freakin' loud enough to raise the dead. You'll clean this up, right?"

"Of course. Sorry."

"It's fine, just... _control_ your soup urges, man. Especially before the sun's up." He plucks a mug from the cupboard and boils himself some coffee. There's no way he'll be able to get back to sleep now, so he might as well wake himself up properly. "Hey, c'mere," Dean beckons.

Cas turns and approaches him, frowning. Dean swipes at the dollop of tomato on Cas' nose, cleaning it up in a single flick. He licks it off his finger and then prods Cas in the chest. "You are a complete grub, man."

Cas' eyes narrow. "Perhaps. The soup is delicious, however."

He can't argue with that. If there's one thing Cas is actually capable of cooking properly, it's soup.

Once the kettle is boiled, he fills his mug and then heads to the dining table. He takes a long sip, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he discovers Cas sitting opposite him, staring intently.

"Dude, that's freaky."

Cas ignores that. "Dean, will we have to gather firewood today?"

"Yeah, I guess. If you want to get the fireplace going."

He shifts on his seat, all bright-eyed and excitable energy. "Yes, definitely. When should we...head out? We're chopping it ourselves, right? Should we go soon?"

"Okay, easy there, Lumberjack." Dean gulps down more of his coffee. "First of all, I'm half-asleep. Secondly, wait until there's at least _some_ light outside."

Cas looks away, pouting. "Fine."

"No sulking," Dean reprimands good-naturedly. "I bet you'll hate it once we get started."

As it turns out, Cas fucking loves it.

They're about a kilometre from the house with a wheelbarrow parked nearby. Dean's removed his jacket and is down to his t-shirt, while Cas is completely shirtless and hammering into a tree trunk like there's no tomorrow. Sam, _apparently_ , is in too much pain to join them, but he made sure to convince Dean to only cut down trees that have already fallen over. Cas swore to report back to Sam if Dean tried anything that wasn't remotely eco-friendly.

It's hard work. Dean's hands are starting to develop blisters and his shoulders are aching with every swing of the axe. _At least there's a decent view_ , Dean grins, eyes tracking up Cas' sweaty torso.

Cas makes a final cut into the wood, chopping off a solid log and letting it _thump_ on the ground. He smiles widely at Dean. "This is _invigorating_."

"That so?" Dean smirks. "Might have to put you to work more often. Get you doing a few more chores around the place."

"As long as it doesn't involve dusting," Cas says solemnly, then wedges the axe into the trunk and lugs the freshly-cut log towards the wheelbarrow. "Physical activity is good for the soul. We should do things like this more often."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, admiring the way the muscles on Cas' back flex with every tiny movement he makes. "Whatever you want, Cas."

Later, after several hours of painstaking wood-chopping and carting it all back to their home, they get the fire going just as the sun sets. Their couch, normally facing the television, has been turned towards the fire. Cas has managed to squeeze himself between the Winchesters, lifting his feet up to rest on the coffee table before them. His feet are adorned in the most ridiculous woollen purple socks. Dean's fairly certain that Sam must have bought them for him.

Cas blows cool air onto his mug of hot chocolate. "I suppose this is what holiday spirit feels like," he comments, beaming.

Sam smiles. "Sure is."

Above Cas' head, Dean and Sam clank their beers together. Dean takes a small sip and observes the fire, letting the warmth ease in and soothe his weary body.


	6. December 6

"Cas, come on—"  
  
" _No_ , Dean, I'm not letting you cut down a tree when there are perfectly good packaged ones for sale." Cas glares, standing about half a metre from him. "We should not be so destructive."  
  
Dean's outnumbered here. Behind Cas, Sam's got a disgustingly smug expression on his face.  
  
"But we were chopping trees for firewood only yesterday!" Dean protests.  
  
"To keep us warm, yes; for survival purposes."  
  
He's pretty sure a lit fireplace is more of an indulgence than about survival — at least for them — but Cas is looking particularly defiant at the moment, so Dean lets the fight rush out of him.  
  
"Fine, we'll get a stupid tree from Walmart or whatever."  
  
Sam and Cas both wear matching grins. "You made the right choice," Cas assures him.  
  
Dean groans. "Whatever, man. Sam, you're coming with me."  
  
It's unanimously agreed that they wait until later in the afternoon, hopefully to avoid most of the crowds. Fortunately, when they get to the mall at four-pm, they're actually able to score a parking space this time. It does take some hunting, but they manage.  
  
They make the trek to Walmart, observing the truly spectacular amount of people that are still shopping. The crowd isn't quite so aggressive at least, and there's enough room for them to walk without the risk of Sam accidentally elbowing someone in the face.  
  
In Walmart, he keeps himself busy in the Christmas-adjacent mens department. Dean declared all of the fake trees to be _super uggo_ , so Sam's taking his sweet time going through each one. Dean's pretty sure the guy actually calls Cas to talk it over at one point, which is all kinds of ridiculous but whatever. At least they're enthusiastic.  
  
Dean discovers a completely outrageous Rudolph sweater amongst all of the other more sensible winter clothing. The material is thick with beige and red stripes. Rudolph's face is huge and right in the middle, his nose a glittering ball of red diamontes.  
  
Dean actually laughs at how silly it looks, then promptly decides that he has to get it for Cas. Hey, Cas only has that trench coat to keep him warm. He could do with a few dorky sweaters.  
  
An eternity later, he and Sam are in the checkout line, a disturbingly expensive tree being dragged behind them. "Of all the trees, you pick the biggest one there, with the fancy-pants leaves that change colour." Dean stares at him incredulously. "Seriously, what is wrong with you?"  
  
"Hey, you wanted a real tree, and this is the next best thing!" Sam replies defensively. "It's big, it's real-looking, and it changes colour, man. I thought you'd like that."  
  
"It is awesome, okay, don't get me wrong. But it's nearly two hundred dollars, Sam. That's just crazy!"  
  
"We can afford it," Sam reminds him, pointedly plucking one of his fake credit cards from his wallet. "And besides, Cas really liked it."  
  
"He hasn't even seen it."  
  
"He looked at the pictures online."  
  
Dean frowns at that. "Wait, you mean he can actually _use_ the internet now?"  
  
"He's not an idiot, Dean," Sam sighs, then heaves the gigantic box onto the counter to be scanned.

On their way out, Sam comes to a stop just outside a Pandora jewellery store. He stares inside, thoughtful, then says, "Hey, maybe we could get something for Jody?"

"Sheriff Mills?" Dean clarifies bemusedly. "Don't know if she's the bracelet-type. Probably could do with an assault rifle more than anything."

"Trust me on this," Sam says vaguely, then leaves Dean standing outside babysitting their big-ass tree.

Dean watches his brother suspiciously. Something's up. Sheriff Mills really doesn't seem like a jewellery person, although, who knows? Sam's hung out with her more than Dean has. Maybe she's the kinda woman who spends her days kicking ass and her nights getting dolled up. Dean would be none the wiser.

Except...Sam's been talking to that customer service lady for a good few minutes now. And she doesn't seem to be showing him the displays or anything. _And_ , considering the way Sam's running his hand through his hair and wearing that big dopey grin on his face, Dean really doubts this pit-stop is about Sheriff Mills at all.

She's got olive skin and her hair pinned up in an extravagant bun, dark locks falling down to frame her face. She looks older than Sam, although not by much, and her teeth are so white they're practically shining, even in the fluorescent lighting. She's leaning forward on the counter, hands clasped together, and she'd probably have fantastic cleavage right now if she didn't have her top button done up. Whatever Sam's saying to her, she can't seem to stop smiling at him.

When Sam finally leaves (nearly ten minutes later), Dean cocks an eyebrow at him. "Who's your lady-friend, huh?"

Sam already looks a little flushed, but his neck definitely turns redder. "What? No, nobody. I was asking her about the charms."

"Uh-huh," Dean drawls, smirking. "Well, she certainly seemed charming, alright."

"Dean—"

"Hey, c'mon!" Dean laughs, punching his brother playfully. "I know you, man. I can tell when you got a big ole crush on someone." He pauses, enjoying Sam's very noticeable silence. "What's her name?"

"I don't know."

"Sure you do!"

"Dean, quit it," Sam grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not into her. I mean, she's attractive, but I was just asking about Jody's bracelet."

"Sure, sure."

"Dean, do I need to remind you of _your_ pathetic love life situation?"

Dean ignores that, focusing his attention on the box he's pulling along. It keeps getting caught behind corners and all sorts of crap. It's a real freaking hindrance. "Y'know, if you don't tell me her name, I'm gonna just go and ask her," he threatens casually.

Sam takes a deep breath. "Eleanor."

"Ooooooh," Dean teases. Sam responds with a hard whack to his shoulder. "Ow! _Dude!"_

"Quit being a jerk."

"Not making any promises."


	7. December 7

Cas gets up around nine, traipses to the bathroom, and then returns to his bedroom the moment he's finished his business. He doesn't emerge again until one o'clock, accompanied by two dark circles beneath his eyes. He fixes himself some coffee and then silently retreats to the porch. He doesn't move for a good few hours, just staring out dazedly at the horizon.

"Is he okay?" Sam wonders aloud. He's on the couch with a book in hand, but he hasn't been reading it for a while now.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs, calming himself with the steady repetition of drying dishes. "Give him a day. He'll be back to normal."

"He does this sort of thing a _lot_ ," Sam ploughs on, brow pinched in a frown. "I mean, I said _hi_ to him this morning and he just kind of...grunted at me."

"He ain't the best with words, Sam."

"But he's better than this!" Sam protests, turning to Dean. "I'm—I'm pretty concerned, dude. I mean, do you think he's... _happy?"_

Dean nearly drops the glass he's holding. "Of course he is," he snaps. "Why wouldn't he be? What's not to love?"

"It's..." Sam falters, momentarily at a loss. "I mean, it's nothing against _us_ , I don't think. But, he was...an angel, I mean, he used to be _bigger_ than all of this. For thousands of years." Sam shrugs helplessly. "I dunno. Maybe he just feels—"

"What, _trapped_?" Dean offers peevishly. "C'mon, Sam. Heaven was chock-a-block with Holy Dickbags. You think he still wants a piece of any of that crap?"

Sam says nothing, turning back around. They can see the back of Cas' head through the glass windows. He's still sitting there, back rigid against the bench's hard wood, baring a remarkable resemblance to a statue.

At least he's wearing the Rudolph sweater Dean got for him. Cas may have been half-dead when he was moving around the house this morning, but bundled up in that ridiculous sweater, Dean found himself able to smile just a little. It also kind of broke his heart.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," Sam announces, getting to his feet.

Dean sighs, chucking the tea towel on the counter with more force than necessary. "Whatever, man. I'll start dinner."

Dean bustles around, alternating between watching the pot boil and chopping up vegetables. Outside, Sam's sitting with Cas, turned towards him and looking the perfect picture of Concerned Friend. Dean slices onions with precision, Sam's brow furrows a little more; Dean places the pasta into the boiled water, Sam puts a hand on Cas' shoulder; Dean browns up the mince, Sam gently shakes Cas.

After thirty minutes, Sam seems to give up and come back inside. Dean tries to catch his gaze, give him an _I-told-you-so_ look, but Sam just slumps into the couch and avoids Dean altogether. The pasta bubbles in the background and the mince simmers next to it, the only form of noise to penetrate the room. Sam's got his book open but his eyes are glazed over, unmoving.

"Did he have anything interesting to say?" Dean asks eventually.

Sam huffs. "Barely said a word."

"Thought that might be the case."

Sam snaps the book shut, placing it on the couch beside him. "Why don't _you_ go talk to him?"

"Sammy," Dean starts, scrubbing his face exasperatedly. "He won't talk to me."

"He will."

"Not today he won't." Dean keeps himself preoccupied with the mince, stirring in some more olive oil. Probably could do with some basil, too. "You just saw how he is. He has bad days, man. I can't help him."

"He needs us," Sam insists, and that phrase makes something in Dean's chest twist. Sam approaches him, coming around the counter and plucking the spatula out of Dean's hand. "I tried, so now it's your turn."

" _Sam_ —"

"Come on." Sam uses his other hand to grip Dean by the shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Please."

He licks his lips and refuses to meet Sam's intense stare. Confronting Cas on his bad days is a harder thing than Dean wants to admit, especially to Sam. When Cas has a bad day, it's just a sign that he's regretting the decision to Fall. To be with them; with Dean.

But, as shitty as it makes Dean feel, this isn't about him. Cas has been sitting on a fucking bench for four hours during _winter_ , for god's sake.

Wordlessly, he shakes off Sam's hand and trudges outside, closing the front door firmly behind him.

Cas doesn't look up as he walks closer, despite the audible clop of Dean's boots against the slate tile. He says nothing when Dean sits down and barely reacts when Dean stretches his arm across Cas' shoulders. For a few minutes they both stay silent, observing the setting sun behind the treetops. Side by side, they shiver together.

"Hey, Cas."

A beat later, Cas replies, "Hello, Dean." His voice is rougher than usual, probably a combination of the temperature and disuse.

It's at that point that Dean realises that he's got no fucking idea what he's supposed to say. Cas' problems aren't the kind that you solve in a hear-to-heart chat, and even if they were, Dean's the wrong guy for that job. Cas wakes up some days and loses the ability to function; becomes immeasurably sad and numb and lacks the experience to identify what it is he's even feeling. Inexplicably, an eons-old heavenly warrior has wound up retired in a cottage on a wide expanse of land, with two messed up humans who suck at expressing themselves almost as much as he does.

And yet, despite all of this, Dean suddenly finds himself chuckling. This doesn't seem to be what Cas is expecting, either, because he gives Dean a bewildered look. "Dean?" he croaks. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because it's goddamn _freezing,_ Cas," Dean answers, his breath forming little white clouds with every puff of laughter. "I mean, if you're gonna brood, why not do it someplace where you aren't going to freeze your nuts off?"

Cas tilts his head. "I..."

"When it comes to an existential crisis," Dean continues, "You gotta have one inside. Near a fireplace or a heater, even." He then turns to Cas, and says solemnly, "Trust me, I _know_ how to have an existential crisis."

Cas' lips curve up, just slightly, and Dean grins. Slowly, Cas' smile grows bigger, until it's almost a match for Dean's own. "Looking better already," Dean says victoriously. "I am _so_ good."

"You're terrible," Cas informs him, which just sets Dean off again, chuckling loudly even as the darkness begins to set in.

The temperature continues to drop and the smell of bolognese has managed to snake its way outside. Dean inhales deeply and his stomach gurgles. "Better head in soon."

"In a moment," Cas tells him.

"Cas, what have I just been telling you? An existential crisis should be _inside_ , not—"

"It's considerably warmer now that you're here," Cas says, and even without the light, Dean can tell that Cas is a little embarrassed.

"Huh. Someone's a flirt," Dean teases.

Cas huffs and curls in closer. Dean lets him.


	8. December 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry about the chapter delay! I've been sick recently and wound up crashing really early last night. The next chapter will be up within 12 hours!

Sundays are Cas' work days. He scored a position at a gas station — the same chain that he worked for previously — with the help of a kick ass reference from his old boss, Nora. Dean's still uncertain about Cas' feelings towards Nora. Initially he was convinced that Cas had a thing for her, but now he's not so sure. Since moving to their new home Cas hasn't bothered keeping in contact with her, nor mentioned her name at all.  
  
Cas doesn't need to work, of course. They're managing their fake bank accounts perfectly fine, but Cas insists on helping to provide. The gas station is overstaffed so he only gets his short shifts on Sundays, but it's enough to keep Cas satisfied. Dean won't complain about a little extra cash, anyway. At least it helps pay for the petrol each week.  
  
While Dean prepares a pan-size omelette for them to split, Cas folds out the ironing board and begins to smooth out the wrinkles in his uniform. It's still a strange sight to see Cas doing such mundane, human tasks, especially with such control and finesse. He sweeps the iron across the collar of his work shirt and presses a pleat into his pants, and for a moment Dean can't comprehend that Cas was once a formless, all-powerful being of blinding white light; a creature who never had need for something as confining as a uniform.  
  
Cas doesn't bother going to the bathroom to change, just strips in the middle of the lounge room while Dean politely looks away (and sneaks a glance as subtly as possible). His uniform is flawless, not a crinkle in sight. "Lookin' good," he tells him.  
  
Cas smiles. "Thank you."  
  
They devour their share of the omelette in content silence. They're always quieter in the mornings; not quite put together yet. At the end of the meal, Cas compliments Dean's cooking like usual, and Dean pretends to brush it off. The reality is, though, that he always eats up the praise.  
  
There's a complete absence of public transport near their house, so Dean has to drive him to work. Not that he minds particularly since the gas station is only half the distance as a trip to the mall. It's in a different direction, too, with much nicer scenery. Cas watches the trees and rivers fly by, peacefully awestruck by the beauty around them. Dean hums Metallica under his breath, tapping his thumbs in time against the steering wheel. The sound seems to bring a fond smile to Cas' face.  
  
The gas station comes into view, a small building with a large sign out the front reading Gas-n-Sip, although the _n_ is dulled out due to a neglected light bulb that's blown its fuse. Dean pulls up to the building's entrance and puts the handbrake on. He leaves the engine running, a low growl that catches the attention of the cashier inside — Ari's his name, or at least he's pretty sure it is.

"You finish at three, yeah?" Dean clarifies. Cas is _supposed_ to finish at three every week, but he likes to stay back sometimes. Whether he's re-stocking magazines or processing inventory adjustments, if he gets on a roll then he just cannot be stopped.

Cas nods. "Come at three-thirty. Just in case."

"Sure thing, buddy. I'll see you then."

Back at home, Sam's awake and bustling about the living room. Having unearthed another shopping bag full of decorations, he's in the process of wrapping glittery gold tinsel around the kitchen bench when Dean walks through the front door. "Without me?" Dean scolds. "You've got some damn selfish Christmas spirit, Sammy."

"Consider it repayment for all that firewood you and Cas chopped up," Sam replies easily, like he'd been rehearsing his defence.

Dean gives him an incredulous look. "It's gonna take a hell of a lot more than _tinsel_ to make up for that. Dude, my hands are _covered_ in blisters."

The hours pass comfortably, half-hearted snarks being hurled back and forth between them. They hang tinsel above the front door and line the kitchen cupboards with green and red. They break for lunch and sit outside, chowing down on leftovers. Sam grumbles about the cold and Dean teases him for being a wuss. Sam retaliates by flinging half a meatball into Dean's eye.

Things are good like this, when there are chores to keep them busy and Sam's health is in decent shape. When they can have a conversation without the weight of the world as an ever-present backdrop.

However, it's on Cas' works days that they notice just _how much_ Cas has become a part of their family. Cas is eccentric, a bad cook, and he spends _way_ too much time isolated in his bedroom, yet his presence is undoubtedly familiar to them both. It's a welcome presence, too; something they appreciate and miss when he's not around.

So when Dean's grabbing the car keys, Sam offers to keep him company. It's pretty much tradition now, Sam riding shotgun when they roll up to the Gas-n-Sip at the end of Cas' shift. Cas is dawdling as per usual, trying to be useful even when he's not being paid for it. Dean's hand is hovering over the horn, deliberating, but eventually Cas spots them.

He hurries over and slips into the backseat. Sam turns around to accept Cas' earnings for the day. They used to argue with him about it, insist that Cas should keep the money since hey, he earned it. Cas is incredibly stubborn, unfortunately.

With all three Winchesters together, they head for home.


	9. December 9

The tree goes up today. It'd been sitting by the front door for the past few days, unopened in its large cardboard box for far too long.

It takes all three of them a good hour, first to spread out the scandalous amount of branches and then to cover it in baubles. The colour coordination is disastrous — much to Sam's displeasure — but once they plug in the fibre optic lights, the tree's lit up so nicely it doesn't seem to matter. Dean wrestles with himself when he finally pulls the golden star out of its box, wanting to put it up himself and finally live out all of those childhood fantasies of his, but he eventually agrees to hand it over to Cas.

Cas turns it over in his hands carefully. "This goes on the top, correct?"

"That's right." Sam nods, grinning fondly.

Cas slips it onto the top, playing with it for a moment to get it balanced properly, then stands back to admire his work. The whole ensemble looks decidedly merry. Something warm blossoms beneath Dean's ribcage.

"And a happy new year," Dean says cheerfully, allowing himself a moment to feel truly happy with his life for once.

The day continues on, however, and they've still got many hours to pass. All of their decorations are up now, leaving Dean with virtually nothing to do. He gave the house a deep clean recently, and both Sam and Cas have retreated to their rooms. Sam's in bed reading, an icepack wrapped snug around one of his knees. Cas is doing whatever-the-hell-he-does-in-his-room, the bedroom door locked tight.

That leaves Dean standing in the middle of the living room aimlessly. He needs to keep busy in order to stay grounded, otherwise all of the negativity from their old life starts catching up with him; make his stomach roil and his conscience flinch.

He drifts into the kitchen and looks to the sink, only to find not a single dirty dish in sight. He opens up the spices cupboard and starts to sort them according to size, then alphabetises them. He cleans out the fridge, binning spoiled food (and isn't _that_ a change from their days on the road?) and tidying the shelves. He grabs a sponge and wipes down the cupboard doors and the bench tops, then scrubs at the stovetop until his arm starts to ache.

It takes him a whole thirty minutes, if that, and by the time he's done he's feeling uncomfortably restless. Surely there's more he could be doing than _cleaning_.

He glances outside, sees the Impala parked on the grass, calling to him. He scoops up the car keys and goes without a second's thought.

The Impala still feels like home to him. It doesn't always bring up the best memories — sleeping in the front seat instead of a mattress, constantly going through drive-thru and feeling sick from the junk food, making the drive alone to Stull Cemetery to die with his brother — but he's felt the wheel beneath his hands and fallen asleep to the engine's purr, and that's not the sort of the thing that you forget easily. Even now, as he settles into the driver's seat, he feels a knot in his gut come loose.

He's not particularly sure where he wants to go. Driving for the sake of driving sounds like a decent plan anyway, so he turns the key in the ignition and takes off.

What a life they've stumbled into. He could drive these roads in his sleep now, and that's not something he'd ever expected. He never believed for a second that they could have a home that was familiar to them, a place with large land and big trees and their own bedrooms. Fucking tinsel covering every inch of their home. The bunker was close to ideal but it was still tied up in their job.

He just never thought they'd escape The Life. Apparently miracles _can_ happen.

Dean follows the road until he reaches town. The main street has a heavy flow of traffic, so Dean makes a detour into one of the side streets. It's the same street that Sam and Cas' favourite second-hand furniture shop lives, sitting quietly between an orthodontics and a bookstore. Inexplicably, Dean finds himself turning into an empty parking space.

He hasn't really ventured into the second-hand place himself, usually opting to wait outside while Sam window shops and Cas thoroughly investigates a gigantic box packed with cushions. He goes in this time, hears the tinkle of the bell on the front door. The young girl at the register looks up from the magazine she's flicking through and offers him a smile. Dean returns it politely.

There's a whole lot of junk for sale. Whether it be book stands, tea cosies or lamp shades, this place has got it all. Dean's not really interested by much of it, although his gaze does linger on some slightly used stoneware frypans, but he's got enough pots and pans cluttering his kitchen as it is.

He _does_ pause at the acoustic guitar. The strings are all missing but one, which looks frayed and coarse. A case sits beside it, so Dean opens it up for inspection. There's a little bit of damage to the clips and the red fur lining the inside is a bit ratty, but overall it's in pretty damn good condition. Dean hoists the guitar off the ground, cradles it to his belly, considering.

This takes him back. Once upon a time, he'd wanted to become a rockstar. He snorts to himself, _Time to make that dream a reality, Winchester. Your day has finally come._

"Do you like it?"

Dean jumps, having forgotten there was another person here. "Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah, I do."

Her eyes brighten. "I'll take twenty dollars off for you, if you'd like."

Dean hesitates. "Uh, that's nice of you, but—"

"How about thirty dollars?" she insists. "I'll throw in some strings, too."

Dean bites his lip. Then again, what is he hesitating for? They can afford it, plus Dean's got all the time in the world to learn it. The case could probably do with a steam clean and the guitar's got some pretty intense scratches along its face, but he can't deny that it feels damn good in his hands.

"Sure, I'll take it."

He makes the journey home, the guitar in its case and slumped on the backseat. He keeps glancing in the mirror to check on it, like it'll vanish if he takes his eyes off it for too long.

When he pulls up to the house, Sam and Cas are sitting on the porch, both with a beer in their hand. They salute him with their bottles, the relief evident in the matching smiles they wear.


	10. December 10

The guitar strings aren't the best quality in the world, that's for sure, although he wasn't really expecting them to be stellar. Hey, at least he got them for free.

Dean sits in the lounge room, pulling up one of the dining chairs so it's facing towards the fireplace. There's no fire lit, just dull grey ash on the other side of the glass door.

He gathers the guitar into his lap, begins to pluck at the strings and twist the tuners. The house is silent apart from the gentle thrum of the strings. He's awash in the serenity of it all.

Sam's taken the Impala into town. Apparently he's off shopping for gifts, although Dean's pretty damn skeptical. He had that look on his face like he's hiding something, and Dean's got a sneaking suspicion that he's using the excuse to go chat up Eleanor. Dean shakes his head, a warm smile playing at his lips. His brother is such a dork.

Meanwhile, Cas borrowed Sam's laptop and spent a good hour or so googling different cake recipes. He kept turning the screen towards Dean, showing him an image of one of the many, _many_ cakes he'd been looking at, and demanding, "Is this an acceptable Christmas cake?" Apparently the google search _Christmas cakes_ produced unsatisfactory results, so Cas was obsessively digging through baking websites until he found something to his liking. Dean's not a bad chef but his sweets knowledge is abysmal, and eventually Cas grew frustrated with his unhelpfulness and retreated to the kitchen. He's been keeping busy in there ever since.

Dean leans closer to the guitar and closes his eyes. It's been a while since he last touched a guitar, but he's sure he can get the tuning right at least. He tweaks the tuners for a good five minutes, listening carefully. He struggles with G for a while, incapable of finding quite the right pitch.

"Close enough," he murmurs to himself, and gets his hands to position.

He starts with something easy. He plucks the simple Smoke on the Water rift he learnt back when he was living at Sonny's, getting a feel for the instrument. He has to fiddle with the notes, shifting his fingers back and forth along the neck until he finds the right one, but he gets the rhythm going eventually. After a while he changes to the G-D-Em-C progression, keeping it uncomplicated. Unfortunately he's without a pick but the edge of his thumb is a pretty good substitute.

It feels like hours drift by while he stays there, thumb slowly sweeping up and down, left hand bending to familiar positions. Muscle memory is a glorious thing. Every now and then the sound comes out fuzzy but he quickly corrects it, and soon he barely slips up at all. The chords are outrageously easy, of course, but it gives him a sense of accomplishment. There's opportunity for him to learn all of those songs he's sung along to all his life, and that's definitely _something_.

A small shiver passes over him. He glances back, spots Cas leaning against the counter, a mug held between both of his hands. There's a soft look in his eye, the kind that makes Dean want to curl in on himself.

"Ah, sorry," Dean finds himself saying. "I can go practice somewhere else."

"No, it's fine," Cas dismisses. He pushes off the counter with his hip and comes closer, moves to sit on the floor in front of the armchair adjacent to him. Dean stares bemusedly while Cas places his tea on the ground and then proceeds to fold himself into a meditation position, feet resting on top of his knees. "Please keep playing," he says, eyes slipping shut. "I find it rather pleasant."

Heat slithers up Dean's neck. He shouldn't be self-conscious in front of a guy like Cas — he once appeared in front of Dean butt naked, after all, completely exposed except for a few artfully positioned bees — but he can't help it. Music is new to him and something he wants to hide away. At least until he gets better at it, anyway. But Cas has invaded his little bubble and taken a seat as a waiting audience.

He decides _to hell with it_ and starts strumming; he notices the little quirk that curves up Cas' lips.

They stay like that for a good while. Cas' tea turns cold, remaining untouched beside him. They sit and say nothing, just enjoying each other's company. Dean attempts to pluck out the chords and does so to a satisfying degree. Cas makes a delighted little hum when he starts playing Smoke on the Water again.

Dean puts the guitar down when the sun begins to set. He's been playing for a couple of hours now. Damn, he'd forgotten just how much his fingers hurt from holding strings down. The tips of his fingers are red and angry-looking. Provided he keeps practicing, he'll develop calluses soon enough.

Cas slowly blinks his eyes open. He looks drowsy, his eyes covered in a shimmery gleam.

"That was very nice," he comments, voice rough.

Dean snorts. "Apparently. It's the most common chord progression ever, man. It ain't that special."

Cas frowns at that, as if he's about to protest. The crease in his brow fades, however, and instead he says, "Perhaps I could learn an instrument."

"Might be a good idea," Dean agrees. "We'll check out some stores in town, see if we can get you something cheap. No drums, though," he adds firmly. "Won't be putting up with that crap."

Cas chuckles quietly. "Okay, no drums." He pauses, gazing at a random spot on the wooden floorboards. "Perhaps a piano, then?"

Dean cringes. "They're really nice, Cas, but they're crazy expensive. It'd be a pain in the ass lugging it out here, too." Cas' shoulders slump. "There are keyboards, though. They're pretty similar to a piano, just a million times cheaper. 'Lot smaller as well."

Cas sits up straight, eyes wide and eager. "That sounds ideal."

Dean grins, the skin around his eyes forming fond little wrinkles. "Okay, we'll look into it. Promise."

They remain there for a little while longer. Cas picks a spot on the horizon and stares at it, barely blinking, apparently deep in thought. Dean, on the other hand, finds himself wondering about the way Cas' hands might fit across the keyboard. The shape they'd take, how his knuckles would stick out, the way they'd drift from one sound to the next.

Unbidden, an image of Cas running those fingers over Dean's naked chest comes to mind. Dean coughs to clear it and then excuses himself. The spell between them is broken. 


	11. December 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my tardiness! This chapter was a struggle for me to get out. If it's any consolation, it's also longer than my usual chapters.

Dean's allowing himself a sleep in for once. He doesn't let himself indulge all that often, but when he stirred at eight-am this morning — pulled awake by someone trudging past his door — he mumbled, "Screw it," and rolled over again. He's been fitted to the memory foam ever since.

Sadly, his phone starts buzzing around midday. Dean was fully prepared to sleep the day away, warmly wrapped in a bed sheet burrito. Grunting, he pushes himself up onto his elbows and checks his phone. The name _Charlie_ is emblazoned across the screen.

"'Ello?" he mumbles into the phone, half-heartedly wishing death upon her.

"I'm not seriously waking you up, am I?" Charlie replies in disbelief. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Charlie came back from Oz about two years ago with a bitchin' new haircut and some seriously cool weaponry. When they asked her how it was, she explained that while the scenery was nice, there was a serious lacking in the ladies. _"There's only so much adventure I can take part in if there aren't any damsels to be saved!"_ Apparently she and Dorothy still keep in touch somehow.

Dean grunts. "Yeah, yeah. What d'you want?"

"Not one for chitchat, are you?" she teases. "Anyway, 'sup? I wanted to come see you guys. But, uh, there seems to be a bit of a problem."

"Problem?"

"Yeah." Through the phone, he hears three booming knocks against something heavy. "You guys aren't home."

It clicks. "Are you at the _bunker?_ "

"Um, duh?"

Slowly, Dean sits up properly. He rubs the grit from his eyes, itching at his face with his palm. "We—we moved, Charlie. Cleared out years ago." He's answered by a very long, very indignant silence. "Did we, er, not mention that?"

" _No!_ " Her cry somewhat deafens him. "How could you not tell me that?! You suck, Dean Winchester! Big time!" She takes a deep breath, then exhales in a long, exaggerated huff. "It's a wonder you Winchesters have any friends at all."

"You're pretty much the only one we _do_ have," Dean reminds her.

"Huh." She falls silent for a moment, as if reflecting on the veracity of that statement. Dean glances out the window. It's _still_ not snowing, but the temperature is damn icy today. Goosebumps are creeping up all over his exposed skin. "Alright, well, where you guys shacked up these days?"

"Illinois area. Near Springfield. I can text you an address."

"That's like eight hours away from here! Aw, man. To think I was gonna surprise you."

Dean chuckles. "It'll still be good to see you, Your Highness."

"Well, yeah," she says matter-of-factly. "I won't be over today, though. A couple of my old W.O.W buddies live not too far from here, so I might pop in and see what they're up to."

"Yeah, cool. You just call me and let me know when you're coming 'round. I'll cook up something fit for a queen."

She laughs. "Sounds promising. Okay, talk later. Ciao!"

Dean hangs up and tosses the phone onto the bed. Well, at least he's got something to look forward to now; something to prepare for. He gets up, traipses to the kitchen, and notices Sam on the couch. He's got a book spread out on his lap, as per usual.

"Morning," Sam greets disbelievingly. "Had a good rest, I take it?"

"Yeah, I guess," Dean says, half-yawning. "Dunno why, but the longer I sleep, the more tired I feel."

"Probably 'cause you've got two decade's worth of sleep deprivation to make up for."

Dean snorts. "Charlie's coming, by the way."

Sam looks up. "Really? It's been a while. When?"

Dean shrugs. "Sometime this week, probably. She just called me then."

Sam returns to his book and Dean focuses on the kitchen, approaching the kettle. He makes coffee, adds sugar and milk and stirs it altogether with fine, well-practiced strokes. He takes out some ready-made crumpets from the freezer and shoves them in the toaster, smothering them in butter and jam when they pop. He takes his breakfast (or in this case, lunch) to the lounge and sits perpendicular to Sam, who's apparently absorbed in his book. _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ it's titled. Dean hasn't read that since he was sixteen.

He chomps down on crumpet, appetite increasing significantly now that he's finally eating. The coffee is sweet but still way too hot when he takes a sip. He blanches when he burns his tongue.

After a few minutes of silence, Dean asks, "Where's Cas, anyway?"

Sam shrugs. "His room, probably."

"Man, _again?_ " Dean devours the last of his crumpet, then sets the plate down with an aggravated _plunk_. "He's like a broody teenager, I swear."

"Go check on him," Sam suggests, carefully avoiding eye contact. "Maybe he'll come out if you ask him to."

Dean mutters to himself, taking his dishes to the sink and scrubbing them thoroughly. Once he's finished, he heads off down the hallway to his room, considering taking a shower, but then he pauses outside Cas' door.

The door is unlocked. It's open a little, too. Not much, maybe a few millimetres, but it's _open_.

Curiously, he gently pushes the door open and sticks his head through the gap. There's a Cas-shaped lump beneath the bed sheets; all curled up like a ball. Dean knocks loudly on the brick wall beside him. "Cas, you awake?"

He's answered by a pathetic groan. Frowning, Dean draws closer, only Cas then speaks: "I don't feel very well."

Dean takes another step into the room. He hasn't really seen the inside of Cas' bedroom recently — the furniture has been rearranged, with Cas' bed beneath the windowsill and his desk in the corner near his built-in wardrobe. There's a cactus by the window, lit up bright green in the sunlight, and an assortment of coloured paintings decorating the walls that weren't there before.

Once he's close enough, Dean finds Cas' forehead beneath his sweaty dark hair. He winces at the heat. "You got a fever, Cas."

"Strange." He pauses, rolling on his side and burying his face into his lumpy feather pillow. "I have a fever, yet I'm shivering."

"That's pretty much how it works, yeah." Dean takes a step back, considering. "I'll get you some painkillers."

He returns a minute later, glass of water and paracetamol in hand, and waits patiently for Cas to pull himself into a seating position. Cas sips the water and then hurls two tablets down his throat, swallowing with an audible gulp. His cheeks have no colour in them at all; just a sickly white. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair resembles a bird's nest.

"You look like hell."

"Thank you," Cas replies grumpily, then slides back beneath the sheets.

"Might wanna just stay there for the rest of the day, man. Sleep it off. Maybe you'll feel better tomorrow."

Cas breathes out heavily, back turned to him. "Consider it done."

Dean hovers there for a moment, frowning. He wants to stick around, keep an eye on him, but he knows Cas wouldn't be a fan of the attention. Maybe if things were different between them — _relationship-wise_ — Cas would let him curl up beside him, let him put an arm around his waist and ease his shivering.

They're not like that, though. They have a kind-of-sort-of-friendship, in the sense that they're more than friends but not quite lovers. Dean lays a hand on his not-quite-lover and gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Call me if you need anything."

His hand lingers there for a moment, feeling Cas' elevated body heat seeping through his pajamas, but then he pulls away. Just as he's closing the door behind him, he hears Cas say, voice muffled into the pillow, "Thank you, Dean."

Dean smiles pityingly and leaves the door ajar, walking off down the hallway.


	12. December 12

Cas is stubbornly occupying the doorway, completely preventing him and Sam from getting to the Impala. Mind you, he's barely able to remain standing, judging by the way he's swaying from one foot to the other, gripping onto the doorway for extra support. Honestly, if they wanted to, they could just push him a little and he'd keel over.

"Take me with you," Cas repeats, brow furrowed in determination. His throat is thick with phlegm, making his voice rougher than usual. It's difficult for him to get through a sentence without his voice breaking.

Sam sighs. "Cas, you're not looking so hot, man."

"I feel like I'm on fire, actually."

"Well—well yeah, exactly! You're feverish, you're—"

"You're a walking talking snotball, Cas," Dean informs him. "It'd be better if you stayed home. Get some rest, you know."

Cas glares at him. His nose is so red that it matches his Rudolph sweater. "No, I'm coming with you. I need to get the ingredients for my fruit cake."

Dean folds his arms. "Sam and I can get them for you."

"No, I need to choose them myself."

"Then I'll take you another day. When you're feeling better."

"You don't understand, Dean. The fruit needs to soak for a week! If we leave it much longer, it'll be past Christmas time." Cas shakes his head, horrified. "We can't let that happen."

Dean pinches the ridge of his nose, massaging the flesh and willing his headache away. "Cas—"

"Dean."

"Cas, this really isn't a good idea," Sam says gently, pushing past Dean and laying his hands on Cas' shoulders. "You're looking a bit wonky there, dude. Wouldn't you rather be lying down?"

Cas inhales noisily, then puffs out a breath with a considerable amount of effort. "Yes, I definitely would prefer that, but this is..." Cas directs an intense look at Dean. "This is important to me."

Oh, here we go. Trying to weaken Dean's defences with the whole _oh, I want to exercise my free will_ and all that. Cas _knows_ that Dean's a sucker for that crap. Today, however, Dean won't let it work on him. He is stronger than free will and puppy eyes.

"Okay, fine." Or not. "Take some more meds before we go, and grab as many tissue boxes as you'll need. We'll meet you in the car."

They hit the road not long after that, Sam in the passenger seat with Cas in the back. Cas has his knees pulled to his chest and a box of tissues nestled beside him. He blows his nose loudly, and the sound is so completely disgusting that Dean winds the windows down, if only so that whatever disease Cas has caught is taken with the wind instead of festering in the car. Dean shoots Cas an unimpressed look in the mirror, but Cas just offers a weak smile in return. Even with a gross sheen of sweat covering his face, Dean's stomach still does a pathetic little flip-flop.

There's a Farmer's Market about a block away from the mall, so they head there first. Dean nabs a parking space in a side street about a hundred metres down the road. Walking there is slow-going, what with Dean and Sam attempting to subtly match up with Cas' turtle-like pace. Each step seems to be agony for Cas' lungs. Dean just barely manages to keep his motherly instincts in check.

Inside, the market is surprisingly large. It's contained within a warehouse, gigantic metal fans rotating leisurely above them. There are aisles formed out of lined up stalls, with each stall being manned by different owners. It's stifling in here, jam-packed with hundreds of shoppers, the crowds growing thicker the further they walk inside.

Beside him, Cas seems on edge, anxious about the sheer size of the crowd. Dean resists reaching out to him, instead half-shouting, "C'mon, follow me," to get his attention through the overbearing noise.

Dean takes the lead while Sam's at the rear, so it should be pretty difficult to lose Cas. The guy seems pretty determined to stick by them, in any case. They weave their way through, careful not to tread on anyone's shoes. Eventually, Cas tugs at Dean's sleeve, directing him towards a stall with a variety of dry fruits for sale. Once the other shoppers clear, Cas steps forward and gives the fruit a thorough inspection. He takes his sweet time with it while Dean and Sam pretend to not notice the mounting frustration on the owner's face.

Eventually, Cas starts requesting bags of sultanas, raisins, and some other fruits that Dean doesn't recognise. They pay and move onto the next stall, where Cas deliberates over two different stems of ginger, and then they have to walk all the way to the end of the market to locate some decent quality cherries. _The c_ _olour of rubies_  is apparently what they're after.

It doesn't take them long to get out of there, but the constant press of people is beginning to make them irritable. Cas also appears to be getting worse, the colour draining from his face. By the time they reach the Impala, he's wearing a sickening shade of green.

"Cas, Sam and I need to get some other stuff. Do you need anything else?"

He shakes his head, mouth fixed in a firm line. "Everything else we already have. Oh, we need Brandy," he remembers.

"We'll get it for you," Dean assures him, helping him back into the car. "You wait here. Just chill out for a minute."

Cas frowns, about to put up a fight, but then his entire body seems to meld into the car's seat the longer he sits there. "Alright," he breathes, eyes falling shut. "I'll be here."

It doesn't take long for Sam and Dean to return. Sam wanted to purchase a few more books and Dean was craving a cob loaf from a proper bakery. Sam's got the Brandy tucked under his arm, too.

Dean opens the door to check on Cas while Sam deposits their stuff into the trunk. Cas' eyes are still closed, his lips parted so he can breathe properly, and his fringe is stuck down to his forehead. Dean glances towards Sam, sees that he's still preoccupied and, feeling bold, Dean presses his knuckles softly against Cas' cheek. He runs them down the skin soothingly, and when Cas' eyes open, he quickly relocates his hand against Cas' forehead.

"Your fever's not doing too well," Dean tells him.

Cas huffs. "I'm aware."

Dean gives him a half-smile and takes his hand away. "Let's get you home."

"Let's," Cas concurs, the relief heavy in his voice.

Dean glances in the mirror again on their journey home, his attention drawn there due to the snores coming from the backseat. Cas is slumped against the window, arms wrapped around his knees. It's such a contrast to the last time Dean saw him sleeping in the backseat; back when he wasn't quite human and the Apocalypse was coming down on their heads. Here and now, Cas looks small and fragile. Dean's lips twitch into a tender smile, and it lingers even when he returns his gaze to the road.

"Dude," Sam says incredulously.

"What?"

Sam stares at him. "You are  _so_ gone on him, man."

"...Shut up."


	13. December 13

He receives an SMS this morning, reading _Be there 2morrow! Middayish. See u soon!!_ It's from Charlie, obviously, and it brings a smile to Dean's face.  
  
It gets him thinking, though — what sort of food should he make? He promised a feast, after all. His hamburger recipe has gotten a lot better recently, and considering how unwell Cas has been, he'd probably appreciate a good burger. He's got that cob loaf sitting in the pantry, too, which will go nicely with a bacon and cheese dip. The very thought makes Dean's mouth water. He'll throw together a salad as well so that Sam doesn't make a fuss.  
  
With that plan in mind, he showers and gets dressed for the day, then knocks on Sam's door. "Sammy!" he calls through the timber. "I'm heading into town. You wanna join?"  
  
The door opens a few seconds later and he's met with a very pale face. "Oh jeez, you didn't catch Cas' sick, did you?"  
  
Sam shakes his head. "Nah, just nauseated." He waves it off. "Usual sort of thing. Think I better stay home, though."  
  
"Sure thing," Dean says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Rest up. I'll be back before you know it."  
  
On his way out, he discovers Cas sitting in the lounge room with Sam's computer on his lap. Cas seems a hell of a lot better today, although his nose is red raw from all of the nose-blowing. Dean can see the fruit cake recipe pulled up on the screen, and it stirs something affectionate in him, leading him to ruffling Cas' hair when he walks past.  
  
Cas scowls at him. "I'm not a child."  
  
"I know that," Dean replies, grinning. "How's the cake going?"  
  
"The fruits are stewing in the brandy," he informs him, attention drawn back to the laptop. He squints at the screen suspiciously. "It seems that there are no more steps until seven days pass."  
  
"Alright, well, guess you got the rest of the day off." Dean pulls the front door open, takes one step outside before turning back. "I'm heading into town. Need anything?"  
  
"Some raspberry pop tarts, please. I've run out." Cas is addicted to those damn things.  
  
Dean chuckles. "Pop tarts I can do. I'll see ya later."  
  
The drive into town is pleasant, no assholes or slow pokes taking up road space. He reaches town in record time and makes a beeline for the small supermarket on Creek street. It's not as expansive as the one at the mall, but the car park's rarely full and it has virtually everything he needs anyway.  
  
He parks and gets out, shuddering when he's hit by the temperature drop. The ground is layered in moisture, leftover from the early morning dew.  
  
It's as he's approaching the supermarket that he notices the news agency. Not the agency, specifically — he's seen it plenty of times before — but one of the headlines on the front of today's newspaper.  
  
His stomach churns a little as he picks it up. _Gruesome death at Jerseyville Factory_. He scans the article, then glances at the date: Friday 13 December. Naturally. All sorts of bloodthirsty spirits out and about on a day like this. He and Sam always had their hands full on unlucky Fridays.  
  
Paying at the counter, he folds up the newspaper and tucks it inside his jacket. He proceeds to the supermarket, and while he's snagging items for his shopping basket, his mind keeps on returning to the article. A man had been killed in some sort of freakish accident, the kind that left him with his head severed completely from his shoulders and a bloody mess all over the floor. It's the sort of incident that triggers a Winchester inspection, only...well, they're retired now.  
  
Dean's so distracted that he almost forgets Cas' pop tarts and has to run back to grab them while the cashier's processing the rest of his food. After he's paid, he slides into the Impala and backs out of the car park, thoughts still circulating around the potential hunt.  
  
By the time he's back home, he still hasn't reached a decision. He switches the ignition off but remains in the front seat, hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turn pearly white.  
  
What's the protocol here? After all, someone's dead, most likely because of some spirit, although it could be something a little more deadly. It's hard to tell. Then again, perhaps it truly was an accident, although Dean scoffs at that idea. It's _never_ an accident.  
  
He bangs his head against the headrest, groaning to himself. His instinct and guilt complex are telling him that he should go check it out. Supernatural phenomena is still a very real threat and the Average Joe still needs protecting. At the same time, though...  
  
He and Sam quit. That was the agreement they made after all of the Ezekiel crap went down — no more hunting. Period. Dean promised Sam that they were out; finished forever. It's been a struggle for them, especially for Dean, to sit still and not go tearing off down the highway at the first sign of death and destruction, but they were managing.  
  
 _"We've saved enough people, Dean! How many more apocalypses do we have to prevent before we're done? This isn't our responsibility anymore!"_  
  
And he was right. Sam was totally right, but Dean feels so guilty about it sometimes that it keeps him up at night, tossing and turning until the sheets tangle around his limbs. Right now he's so torn it's making him want to hurl. Or have a drink. One of the two.

Tugging the newspaper out of his jacket, he reads over the article once more. Jerseyville's only an hour away. He could go check on things and come back before the sun's even set. Sam would be none the wiser.

The front door slams open, drawing Dean's focus. Cas steps out, gives Dean an awkward little wave, and then heads round the back of the house. Dean stares at the spot where he disappeared and watches as Cas comes back again with two large logs for the fireplace. He retreats back inside, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Dean shakes himself. _No._ No more lying. Sam's trusting him to stay strong. He won't let him down. The guy's in agony most days of the week because of the crap they've been through, and Dean won't be the one to pull them back into the middle of it all.

Steeling himself, he steps out of the car, newspaper and groceries in each hand. Once inside the house, he dumps the newspaper on the floor beside Cas, who's rearranging the logs beside the fireplace. He glances up, quizzical.

"Newspaper's good for tinder," Dean tells him, then makes his way to the kitchen.

He'll let Garth know about the accident. Someone else will take care of it.


	14. December 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another delay, I'm sorry! I had to work two back-to-back shifts this weekend and it left me exhausted. I'll get the next chapter up ASAP.

It's a good thing that Charlie's visiting in a few hours. Dean spent the entire night hovering somewhere between asleep and awake, kept conscious by his niggling concern about the prospective hunt in Jerseyville. He finds the headlines pressing into his eyelids, imprinting there and not allowing him to think about anything else. His mind's just one big merry-go-round: should he have gone to check it out? What if another victim shows up? Should he go then? What would Sam think?

In the morning, he has to keep telling himself that Garth will handle it. He'd assured him, _"Don't worry, man! I got someone nearby who can look into it. Sit tight and I'll keep you updated. Enjoy your retirement, dude!"_ Garth has always made Dean nervous, mostly due to his way-too-laid-back attitude, but Garth's also perfectly capable of taking care of things, and all things considered, he's not too shabby at being New Bobby.

So, Charlie's presence will be a good distraction for him. Dean putters around the house instead, keeping himself preoccupied with tidying up. All of the food he'll be making doesn't take too long to prepare, so he won't be starting that part until Charlie actually turns up. He determinedly keeps his gaze set on anything other than the newspaper sitting by the firewood. Cas used some of it last night to get the fire going, but a good chunk of it still remains. The article has probably already been used for fuel since it was on the front page, but the sight of it keeps triggering an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Charlie turns up not long after midday, her canary yellow car noticeable even from the bottom of their steep driveway. All three of them dawdle on porch, awaiting her imminent arrival. She pulls up next to the Impala and steps out of the car, her entire body wrapped up in an outrageously puffy jacket.

"'Sup, bitches?" she greets, making her away over. She hugs Sam first, and he has to almost bend in half to do it properly since the porch is a foot higher than the ground. "Nice property, by the way," she says, gesturing around them. "Never thought I'd find the Winchesters in a big ole farmhouse."

"Believe me, it's a surprise to all of us," Sam laughs.

She pulls Dean into a hug, squishing him against her poofy jacket. "Good to see you, Charlie," Dean murmurs into her ear, chin hooked over her shoulder.

"And you," she replies, grinning once there's distance between them. "It's been way too long!"

Her attention goes to Cas next. They've only met once before, back when she returned from Oz, but they got along fine back then. He wasn't able to understand much of what she was saying, considering her usage of pop culture references exceeded even Dean's, but they definitely enjoyed one another's company regardless. Cas has a much better handle on references now anyway, what with all of the TV he watched in the first six months when they moved in.

Cas offers her a little smile before accepting her hug, arms nestled awkwardly around her waist. Cas doesn't hug very often, if at all. "Hello, Charlie," he mumbles into her shoulder.

She laughs. "Hey, Casanova." She pulls back to give him an affection little pat on the face, squeezing one of his cheeks.

They head inside together, Sam carrying Charlie's large duffle bag in one hand. "Okay," Dean says, splaying his hands out and gesticulating around the house. "Welcome to the humble abode. We've only got three bedrooms, so unfortunately you're gonna have to sleep on the couch."

She shrugs. "Coolio. I'm down for a romantic night by the fire." She pats the edge of the fireplace lovingly. "So, what do we have planned?"

"Well, I'm gonna get started on some snackage. Then I figure we get the beers out, watch some old school movies and laugh at the terrible visual effects."

Sam grins, totally on board, while Cas just tilts his head. Charlie nods. "Perfect."

The house is soon filled to the brim with the scent of food, the flavour of angus beef patties and melted cheese assaulting their senses from every direction. Dean keeps to the kitchen for the most part, whistling as he works. Charlie sticks her head in every now and then, insisting that she can help, but Dean brushes her off, assures her that, "Nah, I got it. Put your feet up, Your Highness!"

Cas wanders in at some point. There's a growing stack of dishes and pans beside the sink, so he rolls up his sleeves and starts filling the sink with hot water. Dean glances over his shoulder from his position by the stovetop, frowning. "Cas, I can take care of that."

"It's fine. I'd like to do something useful," he replies, smiling gently.

Out in the lounge room, Dean can hear Sam and Charlie chuckling to themselves, the sound of the television humming in the background. Wordlessly, he and Cas stand beside one another, Cas taking another pan from him once the patties are done. Playfully, Dean pushes him with his hip, a move that earns him an amused smile. The oven dings a few minutes later, the cob loaf well toasted with melted cheese and bacon filling up its hollowed out centre.

Cas helps him take the food over, balancing a large plate of burgers and walking extra slow to ensure he doesn't drop it. They bring over the cob loaf and Sam's massive bowl of salad, then Dean retrieves four beers from the fridge, passing them out to everyone before taking a seat in the armchair beside Charlie.

"So, what movie are we watching?"

"I've put on some Classic Who, actually," Charlie informs him. "Great stuff. Funny VFX. Prepare yourself for a good time."

Time passes by, pleasant and unhurried. Dean finds himself laughing more than he has in a long while. Sam seems relaxed and cheery, too, taking swigs of beer at a luxurious pace. Cas is fascinated with the Doctor — probably identifies with him on some level — and keeps asking lots of questions, and Charlie is more than happy to answer them.

Much, much later, once the sun is set and stars begin to dot the sky, Charlie gets up, restless. She stretches, her back making some horrific cracking noises, and then she declares, "Let's go outside! I saw some Christmas lights when I showed up."

Out on the porch, Sam turns on the lights, and Dean gives him a smug smirk when Charlie says, "Huh, solar lights just haven't got anything on the normal plug-in ones." Sam glares at him.

Dean glances at Cas, sees the multi-coloured lights reflected in his eyes. It's dark outside, the only sources of light coming from the fairy lights and through the windows, but Dean can still make out the pink flush on Cas' cheeks. From all of the beer, most probably. Cas is still a total lightweight, and he's been getting somewhat giggly as the night has progressed. Now, however, he's silent, lips slightly parted as he gazes at the Christmas lights.

"Cool, huh?" Dean says, which draws Cas out of his stupor.

"Very," he agrees, the word slightly thick in his throat.

All four of them stand there, observing the lights. It's freezing out there, but they've got enough cosy jackets and friendly company to keep them warm.


	15. December 15

It's early morning, the sky barely illuminated by the rising sun. Cas is in the shower, attempting to freshen up for work while Dean lounges on the couch pitifully, massaging his forehead to ease his mild hangover.

"Deeeeeean."

He sighs in an exaggerated fashion. "Whaaaaaat, Charlie?"

She peers at him from behind the couch, resting her elbows heavily on its plush backing. She's disturbingly perky this morning, even though she matched him drink for drink the night before. "I need to do Christmas shopping."

"So?"

" _So_ , we should go into town." She runs a hand through her hair, ruffling it up into short, messy spikes. "I haven't got Sam or Castiel a gift yet. I need you to help me pick something."

Dean groans. "Man, it's like a week before Christmas. The shops are gonna be packed."

"I know, I know." She pauses, hands splayed wide for dramatic effect. "But we must be strong in this time of hardship."

Dean looks at her incredulously. "You are unbelievable."

She swats him lightly across the back of his head before skipping away. "Cheer up, old man! It's gonna be fun!"

Twenty minutes later they're heading out the door, Cas in a hastily ironed uniform and clutching a thermos that's practically overflowing with coffee. He sips it, shivering slightly. "Hangovers are very unpleasant," he murmurs, rubbing at his stomach.

"If you can't handle your liquor, then you shouldn't be drinking on a night before work," Dean chastises, smirking.

Cas scowls at him. "You're noisy," he complains, then proceeds to the Impala, ignoring Dean's amused huff.

A moment later, Sam appears in the doorway, donned in a heavy jacket and looking as good as Charlie does. Charlie informed him of their Christmas shopping expedition, and he'd hurried to get ready to join them. "If we're all good to go, I'll lock up."

Dean nods. "Autobots, roll out."

The drive to the Gas-n-Sip involves a surprising amount of chatter. Dean's accustomed to the more silent drives on mornings like these, where he and Cas sit side by side and relish in each other's presence. Today, it's a welcome distraction — things are a little awkward between he and Cas right now. Cas hadn't been able to greet Dean this morning without his cheeks turning a light shade of pink.

Charlie and Sam are talkative and Dean can tell from Cas' reflection in the mirror that he's not appreciating it. He's got his head pressed to the window, the cold glass soothing to an undoubtedly painful headache. When Charlie lets out a loud bark of laughter, he shoots her a glare, which draws a squeaky little, "Sorry!" from her lips.

Once at the station, Cas slowly rises from his seat, grimacing. Dean calls to him, "Be strong, buddy!" and waves cheerily at him, much to Cas' chagrin. He offers Dean a half-assed wave in return and jumps half a metre off the ground when Dean honks at him in reply. Well, Dean had to do _something_ to ease the tension between them. Sam and Charlie snigger when Cas flips him the birdie, and then he marches inside without looking back.

They drive onward, turning around and speeding in the opposite direction. Charlie starts singing, " _Santa Clause is coming to town!"_ but Dean drowns her out by blasting one of his Iron Maiden cassettes. Sam rolls his eyes at both of them.

When they finally reach town, it takes them a good long while to make it to the shopping centre. Cars are backed up along the streets due to a failed set of traffic lights. Dean finds his headache steadily growing stronger. He narrowly avoids running up the back of the car in front of him, and gets so frustrated he bypasses the entrance to the car park entirely, winding up parked in a taxi zone. Sam opens his mouth to argue but Dean brushes it off, saying, "We'll be quick!"

They're not quick, of course. The crowds are thick and aggressive, buffeting about and making it almost impossible for them to move. Charlie takes them both by the elbow and charges forward, spearing her way through to an electronics store. From that point on, it's all business: Sam picks out a Kindle he likes, Charlie pays and they move on to a clothing store; Dean gleefully buys Sam and Cas awful Christmas-themed sweaters, then they proceed to a Toys R Us; Dean buys Charlie a four-foot Darth Vader toy, then they take a break in the food court.

They dive for the only available table remaining, which is covered in food scraps. Dean and Charlie watch their seats while Sam pays for coffees, purchasing an airy-fairy caramel latté for himself while Dean and Charlie take their coffee black.

"Okay," Dean says, sweeping grated cheese and carrot off the table distractedly. "All I got for Cas so far is another Christmas sweater."

Sam shrugs. "I dunno what else to get him. Maybe some cookbooks or something?"

"Oh hell no," Dean says immediately, shaking his head in horror. "I am _not_ encouraging him. You remember how he broke my waffle iron? No more cooking experiments for him."

 Sam smirks. "Those waffles came out pretty good, though."

"But at what _cost,_ Sam? _What cost?_ "

Charlie grins, gaze shifting between them. "Well, _I_ have an idea."

"Oh?" the Winchesters say in unison.

"I was chatting with him last night. He mentioned something about a keyboard...?"

"Oh yeah," Dean recalls, mind drifting to that pleasant afternoon where Cas meditated to his guitar practice. "I said I'd look into that."

"I can go look around for a music store," Sam suggests, his excuse fairly obvious.

"Sure," Dean says, waggling his eyebrows as Sam gets to his feet. "Be sure to say hi to Eleanor for me."

Sam shoots him an unimpressed stare, then disappears into the waves of people.

He and Charlie sit in silence, slurping down their coffees and stretching their aching feet. Charlie taps a rhythm against her cup, the sound completely drowned out by all of the chaos around them. She then clears her throat, "So, uh. About last night."

Dean frowns at her. "What about it?"

She gives him a strange smile, then sweeps her fringe out of her face before continuing. "You and Cas, er. You sorta disappeared for a while."

Dean feels his stomach clench nervously. "What, you mean when I was helping him to bed?"

"Yeah."

"Well, yeah, he could barely stand, Charlie. You guys weren't exactly helping."

"You were gone for like half an hour, dude."

Dean looks away, heat gathering around his neck and ears. Getting Cas to his bedroom had been a difficult process, encumbered further by the fact he kept tangling his limbs around Dean at every available opportunity. When Dean had heaved Cas onto the bed, Cas had grinned and pulled him down too, murmured, "I like you," in a giddy, breathy voice that brings goose bumps to Dean's skin even now.

"Nothing happened," Dean clarifies, failing to meet her gaze. "He was acting like an oversized kid, Charlie. Every time I put him to bed he kept getting back up again."

She eyes him suspiciously. "Uh-huh."

 _Definitely nothing_ , he tells himself, recalling the feel of Cas' fingers tangling in his shirt, tugging him to the mattress; the warmth of Cas' body halfway beneath him; the sound of Cas telling him, "You smell very nice, Dean," and, "Stay with me."

Charlie's wearing a very curious expression. "Did you...did you _want_ something to happen?"

"Wha— _no!_ " Dean lies, mortified. "No, of course not!"

Charlie raises her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay."

Why would he have wanted something to happen? It's not like Cas' breath against his neck had felt  _really damn nice_ or anything. One of Cas' knees being pressed between Dean's thigh was more of an annoyance, really, and certainly wasn't  _super-duper hot._  Dean definitely didn't enjoy either of those things. The whole experience was marred by disinterest, really. He wasn't lying to himself whatsoever. 

Dean rubs a palm over his face, blatantly ignoring Charlie and her accusatory eyes. Thankfully, Sam returns not long afterwards, a sheet of paper in his hand.

"What's that?"

Sam holds it up: it's a black and white advertisement for a second hand piano, for sale in someone's garage. "Christmas gift idea," Sam elaborates. "Got it off the noticeboard near the elevator. Says to call her for a quote."

Dean plucks the flyer from Sam, reading over it carefully. "Huh," Dean murmurs. "Alright, well, give her a call."

So Sam does.


	16. December 16

A lady named Agatha owns the piano. She was delighted that they'd taken an interest in it, and invited them to come inspect it on Monday.

So, as subtly as possible, Dean and Sam try to make the trip to Agatha's home while Charlie remains behind to keep Cas distracted. Cas, however, notices the _very_ audible rumble of the Impala starting up, so he marches outside to investigate, Charlie following helplessly behind him.

"Where are you going?" Cas asks, squinty-eyed and suspicious.

Dean and Sam offer him matching, sheepish grins. "Eh, to town. Y'know, just. Shopping. And stuff," Dean explains while Charlie shakes her head from her position behind Cas.

"'And stuff'?" Cas echoes, frowning.

"Yep," Dean nods, offering up no further information.

"I see."

"Yeah, so, uh, you kiddies sit tight while Sammy and I do some shopping. Don't go misbehaving now," Dean adds, pointing an accusatory finger between them both.

"Of course I won't," Cas replies, looking mildly offended by the suggestion.

He and Sam drive off, leaving a confused-looking Cas standing on the porch, Charlie beside him and waving cheerily.

Agatha lives fairly far away, out in an area similar to where the Winchesters live: farmland, wide and spacious and with very few neighbours. It takes them almost an hour to reach her, the trees growing thicker and thicker around them and the road eventually turning into a narrow dirt track. Dean winces as he drives over the small potholes, stroking the Impala's dashboard in apology. She's not made for the off-road stuff, but she's tough.

The trees suddenly begin to thin out, and they happen upon a large area with a creek bed and an old, looming house. It seems to be made from the surrounding trees, and Dean wonders if perhaps Agatha and her family built it themselves, which would be pretty damn impressive considering the size of the place. It's a whole storey bigger than their own home.

Sam whistles. "It's kinda creepy."

Now that he says aloud, Dean finds himself agreeing. There are great long vines snaking their way up the house's wooden walls, and the creek looks deep enough to hide a body. "Check the EMF, just in case," Dean grunts.

Sam complies, popping open the glove box and fishing out the old device. There's a whole lot of junk in there now: a pair of nail clippers, a scarf (probably belongs to Cas), some old grocery receipts and a dessert cookbook (probably Dean's). It's all further evidence for how domesticated they've become.

The EMF meter whirls to life, and after about ten seconds of no panicked pinging, Sam shoves the device in his pocket and they step out of the car, slamming the doors behind them. They trudge over to the front door, their boots getting somewhat stuck from the sludgy earth, and come to a stop at the welcome mat, the material printed with adorable kittens.

After a few resounding knocks, the door swings open to reveal a wrinkled woman in a lumpy grey sweater. Her hair is as long as her chin and dyed chestnut brown, and her crow's feet deepen at the sight of them, mouth stretched with a kind smile. "You boys rang about the Baby Grand, right?"

Dean's baffled for a moment, but Sam replies smoothly, "Yeah, that's us. I'm Sam, this is Dean."

"I'm Agatha. It's a pleasure. Come inside!" she beckons. They dutifully follow.

While the outside isn't very friendly-looking, the inside of the house is warm and pleasant. After passing through a narrow hallway, the home opens up into a cosy dining room, colourful tinsel decorating all the lamps and tables. All of the furniture looks old but well-loved, and the huge arrangement of cushions around the chairs brings a smile to Dean's face.

She leads them to a smaller room then and she has to switch the lights on due to the dark curtains covering the windows. There's the piano in all its glory, significantly bigger than what Dean was hoping for. There's no way it's going to fit in the Impala, but considering how beautiful it is, he can't resist sweeping a palm over its smooth surface. He knows for a fact that Cas would much prefer something like this — he's always liked the look of something rustic and aged, and a keyboard just doesn't have that sort of appeal. It would play music in a similar fashion, for sure, but he knows that Cas would fall in love with an instrument like this.

"She's over a decade old," Agatha tells them, a wistful smile playing at her cheeks. "But she's in perfect working order. My husband was always so careful with it."

"Your husband played?" Sam asks.

She shakes her head. "No, I did. But he used to love to hear me play, so..." She trails off, looking a little misty-eyed. "But I can't play it anymore. My joints just aren't cut out for it," she explains, holding up her weathered hands. Even from a distance, Dean can see the red swelling around her knuckles. Sam rubs his own knuckles empathetically.

"I think our friend would really like this," Sam says, then directs his attention to Dean. "Right, Dean?"

Dean nods distractedly, allowing his fingers to press a couple of the keys. The notes are clear and lovely. "Yeah, he'd go crazy over this," Dean chuckles. "How much?"

"Well..." She wrings her hands together, looking somewhat guilty. "We bought it for four thousand originally, so...two and half?"

Dean feels his stomach plummet.

"Sorry, I know it's a lot—"

Sam waves off her concern. "No, it's perfectly reasonable. Let me just talk it out with my brother, one moment."

He and Sam exit, moving their conversation to the lounge room. Once they're far enough away, Dean groans. "I dunno if we can afford it, Sam."

"Sure we can," Sam insists. "We've got four different accounts at the moment. We'll have enough."

Dean rubs a stressed hand over his face. "I don't think so, Sam. I mean," he lowers his voice, "ain't it bad enough that we've got fake cards? She'll want it in cash, man. I'm pretty sure withdrawing two grand is gonna look a tad suspicious."

Sam frowns at that, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe Charlie can help?"

"Probably," Dean sighs. "But we can't legitimately pay her back, so...I don't know. It doesn't seem right, Sam."

Agatha shuffles in a minute later, a hopeful smile on her face. "So? Are you interested?"

Dean opens his mouth to decline, but Sam interjects, "We'll take it."

Quarter of an hour later, they're heading back out to the car. They haven't paid yet, 'cause they need to sort out their finances, but they've promised they'll return.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean demands, yanking the car door open. "What was _that?_ "

"Dean, we'll work it out. It'll be fine."

"Are you _nuts?_ " Dean stares at him incredulously. "How is this going to be fine?"

Sam sighs. "We'll work out the technicalities later. But look, just think about it — you give Cas that piano, and he will _throw himself at you_." And with that, he slips into the passenger seat and slams the door with an air of finality.

Dean blinks, frown deepening, then clambers inside.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"


	17. December 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm so behind on the chapters! Busy time of year and all that. Writer's block, too. Thank you for your patience!

Charlie's leaving today, although only for a short while.  
  
"An old LARP buddy lives in St. Louis. He owns a trailer, or at least he did back in the Moondoor days. Probably come in handy for Cassegrain's present."  
  
Dean nods, humming. They're standing next to Charlie's car, the icy temperature seeping in through their winter wear. Sam and Cas have already said their goodbyes this morning, so it's just him and Charlie now. She bounces on the balls of her feet, teeth chattering.  
  
"Let me know if you can't borrow it. I can figure something else out," Dean says, breath appearing in puffs of white smoke. "Good luck on that date, by the way."

She grins, plucking her phone from her pocket. "Brenda hasn't led me wrong yet." She flicks her thumb across the screen. "Elizabeth is an Honours student who works part-time at Starbucks. _Finally_ I'm living out my very own coffee shop AU!"

Dean isn't quite sure what that means, but Charlie looks delighted, so he smiles. "Go get 'em, girl."

She offers up her fist and he bumps it, then tugs her by the wrist into a hug. She squeezes him tightly. "I'll be back soon," she tells him, then takes a step back. She sinks into the driver's seat and gives him a wave as she's driving off. Dean waves back, then shoves his chilled hands into his pockets and returns to the house.

The temperature's been dropping steadily over the past few days. The weatherman's been saying that it'll snow later this week; something Dean's been hoping for. If he wants to have a proper Christmas this year then it _has_ to snow. A white Christmas is the only kinda Christmas, at least as far as he's concerned.

With Charlie now gone, the house is peculiarly silent. He finds himself at a loss of what to do, temporarily settling in front of the TV and watching re-runs of Hogan's Heroes. Sam's keeping to his bedroom today, and judging from the claw-like hand he was sporting this morning, it's mostly for health reasons. Cas, well, Dean hasn't seen him all day, but he's probably sulking in his bedroom like usual. Things between he and Cas are still fairly awkward. Occasionally Dean catches himself pondering their drunken shenanigans from the other night, and it never fails to make him uncomfortably flustered.

A Costco jingle starts playing, advertising all sorts of specials on food hampers and toilet paper, ending with a reminder of its gift wrapping services. Dean taps his fingers on the couch arm, thoughtful. He _does_ have to wrap his presents at some point, although he's really not well versed in that sort of thing. He's only ever used newspaper as gift-wrap, for one.

He's distracted momentarily by a loud twanging sound from outside, followed swiftly by crashing and banging. It sounds like it's coming from the garage-slash-storage room, so he gets to his feet, groaning at the ache in his knees. Surely he's not _that_ old yet.

Once outside, he's greeted by a well toned rear as Cas bends over to reach something deep within the garage. Dean allows himself a moment to enjoy the view before making his presence known. "Cas, what the heck are you doing?"

"Filling in time," he calls back, vague as ever.

Cas shuffles his feet, digging his heels into the earth and tugging on something that's beyond Dean's field of vision. Dean sidesteps the mass amount of crap all over the ground — tyres, fishing rods, a jerry can and lord knows what else — until he finally reaches Cas' side. "Is that...a bicycle?"

"Indeed."

When they'd commandeered this place, there'd been a whole lot of extra stuff leftover. The TV cabinet and Cas' bed are the only things they'd kept while everything else had been either thrown or put into the garage. This bicycle must have belonged to the previous owners, 'cause Dean certainly hasn't seen it before. Neither he nor Sam have ever owned a bike. This one's in terrible condition but Cas is pulling at it desperately, like his life depends on it or something, so Dean shoves more junk aside and helps to lift it.

With their combined strength, the bicycle comes free, and they drag it to an empty spot on the ground. Cas pants, apparently exhausted from the effort, while Dean crouches down to get a better look at the thing. It's condition is even worse than what he'd initially thought: flat tyres, badly damaged chain, the seat looks like it's been chewed on by rats, and there's patches of rust decorating it everywhere. Dean whistles. "No way this thing's going to run," Dean declares.

Cas kneels down beside him, frowning. "I know. I want to fix it."

Dean looks at him bemusedly. "You? Mr. Handyman, huh?"

"Don't underestimate me," Cas replies quietly.

"Hey now, I didn't mean it," Dean tells him, laying a careful hand on his shoulder. Cas doesn't shrug it off, although he doesn't seem particularly pleased that it's there. "I can help you fix it, if you'd like."

"No, I..." Cas pauses, frown deepening. "I'd like to do it myself."

"Do you know how?"

Cas exhales heavily. "Not _really_ , but I can look it up. The internet signal reaches out here, so. I should be fine."

Dean nods slowly, cautiously masking his disappointment. "Okay, well, that's cool. How about I get you some tools to get you started?"

"Yes, that would be appreciated."

There's a toolbox the size of a mini-fridge behind the house, filled to the brim because of Dean's fascination with Home Depot. He fetches two different wrenches, pliers, wire cutters, a tyre pump and a multitude of other tools and brings them to Cas. Cas, meanwhile, is in possession of Sam's iPad, browsing a Wiki how-to page with a bamboozled expression.

Dean leaves all of the tools in a pile beside him and, somewhat bitterly, says, "Good luck," before traipsing back inside. Screw Cas, then. He can fix the bike all by himself, _apparently_ , so Dean's gonna wrap presents instead. He refuses to sulk about it.

Despite this decision, however, Dean sets up his gift wrapping on the dining table, giving him a view of Cas' efforts outside. Just in case Cas calls him over for help or whatever.


	18. December 18

Sam wanders into the lounge room sometime around midday. He's looking good: his best jeans, a collared shirt he actually ironed, and Dean's pretty damn sure he's used a touch of hairspray. Despite the fact they're standing two metres apart, Dean can smell his cologne. "Going out?" Dean asks, a sly grin spreading across his features.  
  
Sam plays with his watch, avoiding his gaze. "Just going to the bank. Get the money for Cas' piano, you know."  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
Sam gives him a disparaging look. "No, I'm—" he huffs, surrendering to Dean's impish smirk. "I'm gonna try asking out Eleanor."  
  
"Atta boy, Sammy!" Dean exclaims, jumping to his feet. He beams, then grabs him by the shoulders enthusiastically. "Alright, here's how you do it. You wait until the shop's pretty much empty—"  
  
"Dean—"  
  
"And then you saunter up, you know, all confident and whatnot. Not too confident though, you don't want to come off cocky—"  
  
"Dean, I got it," Sam cuts him off, decidedly embarrassed by his big brother's ridiculous pep talk. "I'll be fine. I know what I'm doing."  
  
Dean stands there, chewing the inside of his mouth, then shakes his head. "Well, this is gonna be a disaster."  
  
Sam punches him on the shoulder hard enough to make Dean yelp, " _Ouch!_ Jeez!" Sam rolls his eyes, smiling fondly, then snags the keys and makes his way outside to the Impala. He walks past Cas, who's still on the ground tinkering with his bicycle, and bids him farewell. Cas barely looks up, offering him a vague sort of salute instead.  
  
Once the Impala's disappeared from view, Dean flops down on the couch. He's been in this exact position ever since breakfast, the dirty dishes still sitting on the coffee table. Dean groans, stretching out until his head's almost dangling off the back of the couch. He's bored, Cas won't hang out with him, and now Sam's gone away.  
  
Huffing, he rights himself, staring ahead towards the Christmas tree. His shoddily wrapped presents are beneath it now, next to a couple of Sam's. Sam must have snuck them under the tree sometime last night, the gifts wrapped in an almost flawless fashion, complete with curled ribbon. Dean hates him a little for that. What a show off.  
  
Dean turns his attention to Cas, who's lying on his back and staring at the sky. Seeing an opportunity, Dean pushes himself to his feet and heads out to his weary comrade.  
  
Cas squints at him from the ground, the sunlight irritating his eyes. "Hello, Dean."  
  
"Hey there," Dean greets, smirking. "Harder than it looks, huh?"  
  
"So it would seem," Cas sighs, covering his eyes with his forearm. The bike chain is all tangled up, worse than it was yesterday. "This is incredibly frustrating work."  
  
"Eh, well, I would help you out, but..." Dean shrugs. "I'm sure you'll manage."  
  
He makes to go back inside, except he's stopped by Cas' voice. "Dean," he says, obviously irritable. After a pause, however, he sighs. "I could use some assistance."  
  
 _Mission accomplished_ , Dean grins. He turns back to him and rubs his palms together eagerly. "Awesome! Come on," he offers a hand out to him, "let's get to work."  
  
Cas takes his hand and Dean heaves him up, their hands remaining linked a fraction longer than necessary. They pick up the bicycle and carry it beneath the shade of a tree, and Dean jogs back to round up all of the tools off the ground, too.   
  
While Dean works on untangling the chain, Cas starts to fix up the seat, listening carefully to Dean's instructions. He tears off the corners of a foam mattress they found in the garage, stuffing the foam into the seat's holes, then patching it up with masking tape. By the time Cas has finished with it, Dean's maybe halfway through fixing the chain.  
  
They work well together, passing tools between each other with barely a word. Dean enjoys the quiet; finds Cas' unique company soothing, like always. It's cold out here, especially now that they're in the shade, but the glare of the sun made it too difficult to see what they were doing, and anyway, Cas' thigh is pressed comfortably against Dean's own. It's a bit surprising how warm it makes him.   
  
There's a moment when they both move to pick up the pliers and their hands collide. Dean's a little awed by the calluses on Cas' fingers, the way they brush against his own equally rough hands. He only felt his touch briefly, but those calluses are a lovely reminder of how far Cas has come; how deeply he's sunk into the throes of humanity.  
  
He hears the Impala's growl long before he sees it. Dean shuffles a little to put more space between he and Cas, then clears his throat once Sam comes into view. "So, how'd it go?"

Sam looks at him, silently deliberating. Eventually however, he smiles and gives him the thumbs up. "Got a date for Christmas Eve."

Dean whoops loudly, and both Sam and Cas watch him with bemused smiles.


	19. December 19

Another Thursday has come 'round again, meaning that Cas is particularly exuberant today. Dean trots out into the living room just after eight to find Cas already back outside, head down and fixated on that damn bicycle. Dean blows at his cup of coffee, settles into an armchair and watches Cas through the window, contemplative.

He's not quite sure what's got Cas so obsessed with this bike. Cas hasn't been on the porch or locked in his room for a few days now, which is a refreshing change, to be honest. That sort of behaviour never fails to make Dean nervous. At least with Cas in plain sight, Dean can keep an eye on him; make sure he's doing okay and not planning to take off on them.

Dean sighs, resting his mug on his knee. He still worries about that sort of thing, having been abandoned by Cas one too many times. Cas choosing humanity over angelhood had eased that anxiety just a little, but not by much. Choosing humanity doesn't mean choosing Dean, and nor should it. Dean's not the kind of guy you give up your whole identity for. For this whole situation to work, Cas needed to choose humanity for _himself_ , not to be with Dean or Sam or anybody else.

That's why it frustrates him that he can't get a read on Cas these days, because he just needs to _know_ that Cas doesn't regret his decision; doesn't long for the good old days, lounging on Cloud Nine. When Cas sits out on the porch, unmoving for hours on end, that just makes Dean's stomach plummet. Cas keeping to his room and not coming out all day just reminds Dean of a particularly angsty teenager, and he wonders if Cas is trying to sort through his emotions in a similar fashion. Whether he's just too overwhelmed by _feelings_ to know what to do with them.

Dean rubs his thumbs over his mug, frowning. His coffee's rapidly turning cold, aided by the winter chill. He takes a sip, wrinkling his nose at the lukewarm taste. Outside, Cas is pumping up the bike's tyres, a look of intense concentration worn on his face.

A yawn drifts in from the hallway. Dean glances up to see Sam standing there, smoothing his hair down with his hands into its immaculate form. He's had a bit of a rough sleep, judging by the redness in his eyes. "Yo," Dean says.

Sam stretches his arms wide above his head before answering. "G'morning. Anything for breakfast?"

"Nope," Dean replies, smiling at the grumpy expression Sam gives him. "Hey, I'm no breakfast wench. Get it your-damn-self."

Sam grumbles, slowly making his way towards the kitchen. Sheesh, he doesn't seriously think Dean's gonna dish out pancakes every time he bestows his presence upon the world, does he?

Chuckling to himself, Dean downs his coffee in a long, rather unpleasant gulp, then heads to the bathroom to wash up.

His hair's still wet when he walks outside, giving him a peculiar contrast between his head and his happily snug body. Dean crouches down to Cas, putting them at eye level. "Cas."

"Hello, Dean," he answers, attention unwavering from the bike chain. Dean managed to untangle it yesterday, so Cas is slowly threading it through the bicycle now. He's concentrating so hard that his tongue's poking out, which is pretty damn cute.

Dean shakes himself, forcing his gaze away from that bright pink tongue. "How can I help?"

"I'm fine, actually," Cas tells him, ignorant to Dean's disappointment. "I'm really getting the hang of this now." He finally meets Dean's eyes, beaming. "I think I'll have it working by the end of the day."

It _has_ come a long way over the past couple of days. The wheels are plump and devoid of any holes; the seat might be a bit patchy but it at least looks comfortable; and the chain's in good shape, just needs a bit of oil to finish it up.

Dean nods slowly, giving him a half-smile. "That's great, Cas."

"It'll be able to support my weight, won't it?" Cas asks, and isn't _that_ a hilarious image: Cas riding a bike, taking off down the hill, realising he's unfamiliar with how the breaks works, and promptly careening into a ditch. "This...isn't a child's bike, is it?"

"Nah, it's big enough." Judging from the remaining pink paint along the bars, however, it wasn't really designed for a middle aged _man_. "Shouldn't have any issues. Make sure you lube it up before you ride it, though." Dean sniggers at his own filthy joke.

Cas doesn't catch the double-entendre, instead just nodding along, continuing to hook the chain onto the bike. "I won't forget," he promises solemnly.

When Cas says nothing else, Dean takes his leave, returning to the couch. Sam must notice the glum look on his face and suggests, "Wanna watch a movie or something?"

So the day progresses with Dean and Sam watching Charlie's copy of Red Dwarf. Cas stays outside, fixing up the bicycle until the sky turns orangey-red, and meanwhile Dean and Sam sink further and further into the couch, chuckling along with the laugh soundtrack. When Dean gets up to fetch beer and popcorn, Sam switches over to Dr. Who.

In the finale of season one, Cas bursts through the front door, a triumphant smile on his face. He's got grease smeared on his cheek and a vibrant energy enshrouding him. "I've done it!" he announces. "It's working."

"Awesome," Dean says, patting the space beside him. "Now why don't you come and join us, hm?"

Cas deflates a little, looking torn. "Oh, I was—I was going to test drive it, actually."

"Too bad," Dean grunts, hitting the couch harder for emphasis. "C'mere."

"Dean—"

"Cas, you've been working hard all day," Sam reasons, setting his beer down on the coffee table. "Come put your feet up. You like Dr. Who, don't you? We were watching some of the older seasons the other day."

Cas licks his bottom lip. "I...yes, okay. I will join you. Although, perhaps I should clean up first?"

They both nod and Cas marches off to the bathroom. Dean doesn't mind Cas' B.O. too much. It's kind of a musky smell, sweaty and human and surprisingly pleasant. Sam's the one who complains about it. Sam just can't appreciate a man's sweaty sheen, apparently. Not that Dean makes a habit of appreciating the male form or anything.

Cas settles in between he and Sam, adorned in a flannelette shirt and track pants. He's got a beer in his hand, too, and he takes a small swig of it.

They reach the Christmas episode, watching a killer tree spin out of control and decimate Rose's house. Cas observes this with an intense gaze, drinking it all in, while Dean and Sam chortle merrily.

Just before nine-pm, Dean becomes aware of a head thudding against his shoulder. Cas' hair tickles his neck, and Dean can hear his even breathing, an indicator that he's drifted off. Apparently all of his DIY bike repair has rendered him all tuckered out; not even his Thursday energy can save him.

Dean's very, _very_ aware that Sam is nearby, so he's not sure how to deal with this new situation just yet. Cas is unbelievably soft though, all toasty and warm, and having Cas this close to him sends all sorts of pleasant tingles up his spine.

He forces himself to look at Sam, who's avoiding his gaze but wearing a very smug smile. That smile has nothing to do with The Doctor, Dean's sure. "Shut up," Dean says grumpily.

Sam turns to him. "What?" he says, all innocent. "I said nothing."

"Just shut up, Sam," he grunts, swinging an arm around Cas and tugging him in closer. In his sleep, Cas makes a happy snuffling noise. "If you say one word, I _will_ punch you."

Sam laughs — a short, pleased sound. He returns to the TV, purposefully keeping his eyes glued to the screen. After a few minutes of silence, Dean finds himself smiling just a little. His stomach does a backflip when Cas shuffles in closer, one of his hands curling into the fabric around Dean's stomach.


	20. December 20

The house is eerily silent this morning. Dean feels smothered by it the moment his eyes open, a chill creeping up his spine that is inconsequential to the temperature. He lays there for a moment, breathing deep, debating whether to get up and deal with whatever atrocity has occurred during the night. He does, inevitably; rising to the occasion like he has in all his other years of existence.  
  
He discovers Sam standing stock-still in the kitchen, the dreary daylight through the window illuminating Sam's ruffled bed-head and hunched shoulders. Slowly, Sam turns to face him, a torn scrap of paper seated ominously between his fingers.  
  
Dean swallows audibly. "What's up?"  
  
Sam can't meet his eyes, instead keeping his attention directed at the paper. He answers, "Cas is gone."  
  
Something breaks inside of Dean at those words. Suddenly he becomes small and hollow, as delicate as a child who's just been informed that Santa's not real. "Wh-what?" He curses his stutter. His mouth feels parched and useless. "What do you mean he's _gone?"_  
  
"This note," Sam says, waving it indicatively. "It's Cas' handwriting. All it says is _Don't worry, I'll be back soon."_  
  
"That's it?" Anger seeps into Dean's tone now, replacing the anguish. "That's all it says? Seriously?"  
  
At Sam's nod, Dean starts pacing, rubbing a palm over his face. Sam watches him, concern etched into every pore of his skin. Dean swings past and snatches the note from Sam, eying the cheap blue ink that stretches across the page in Cas' messy cursive.  
  
How can this note be so damn short? So vague? What the actual _fuck_ , Cas?  
  
Growling, Dean scrunches it up and hurls it across the room, dissatisfied when it bounces off the bricks and lands lightly on the floor. "Okay," Dean starts, turning back to his brother. "Well, it would take hours to reach town on foot. He can't have gotten too far."  
  
As it turns out, however, Cas could very well be miles away by now. The bicycle is gone, too.  
  
Dean stares at the ground incredulously, right where the bike had been parked yesterday. There's a tyre mark pressed into the squelchy earth, a drag line that points in the direction Cas must have taken off in.  
  
He helped repair that bike. He feels, acutely, like he's been tricked.  
  
He scrubs at his face, a dull ache beginning to form in the back of his skull. "Okay," Dean exhales. "We should, uh, we should look for him."  
  
"Should we?" Sam questions, eyebrows raised. "I mean, he said he'd be back."  
  
"But when?" Dean snaps, waving his arms in an exasperation. "He didn't say. It could be today, tomorrow or next year for all we know."  
  
"Dean, calm down," Sam placates, which just pisses Dean off further. "I think we should wait. He clearly wanted to do, well, whatever it is by himself. I'm sure he'll be back soon."  
  
"Screw that," Dean grunts, heading back inside and snatching up the keys. "I'm gonna go look for him."  
  
"Dean, stop!" Sam puts a firm hand against his chest, halting him. "Just chill out for two seconds, okay?"  
  
"No," Dean replies, slapping Sam's hand away. "It's Christmas, damn it. Family comes first. I'm not having him pull another vanishing act."  
  
"This isn't like all those other times," Sam protests. "He left a note."  
  
Dean gives him a flat look. "Sam, I'm going. Are you coming with me or not?"  
  
Sam stares at him, unimpressed. Dean jingles the car keys in his face for emphasis, which just makes Sam roll his eyes. "No," he says eventually. "I'm staying here."  
  
"Fine. See ya later."  
  
Sam folds his arms, observing Dean sulkily slamming the car door and speeding down the driveway. Revving the accelerator eases some of the fury stewing within him, and he drives above the speed limit once he's on the main road. It's a relief to let _some_ of the tension out.

Soon, however, the rage begins to dissipate. It occurs to him that he should probably drive slower and observe his surroundings more thoroughly, just in case he catches sight of an insensitive douchebag riding a pink bicycle. Numbness seeps in and covers up all of that indignation, leaving Dean rung out and cold. He exhales softly and squeezes the wheel tighter. His headache intensifies.

But, even after driving to town and all the way up to Cas' Gas-n-Sip, Dean returns home with an empty passenger seat. Pulling up to the house and tugging on the handbrake makes his stomach roil with defeat, and for a while, he can't summon the energy to step out from behind the steering wheel. Instead, he sits there and stares, trying very hard not to let his fear consume him.

Cas promised he'd come back, right? That's what the note said. Cas may not have the best track record, but they're family for real now, aren't they? He has his own bedroom, damn it. There's apricot scrub in the shower because he doesn't like the dead skin that appears in little bumps along his cheeks, and there are tissue boxes in every room because the littlest things make his nose run. There are five hundred pillows in their goddamn house and they're all a consequence of Cas' spontaneous spending. 

This is Cas' home, isn't it?

Dean sighs, his breath misting up the glass. Once he gathers up enough willpower he emerges from the car, stomping into the house and ignoring Sam's curious stare from the kitchen. He pushes open Cas' bedroom door, inspecting its state of affairs: bed unmade, sneakers missing from their usual spot underneath the desk, but most importantly, it doesn't look like his wardrobe's been ransacked in a desperate attempt to pack a duffel bag, so there's that.

That eases him somewhat, but barely. It's only just past lunch time but now's a good time as any for a drink.

Sam shoots him a pointedly disapproving stare when Dean procures the bourbon from the back of their pantry. Sam makes no move to stop him, blessedly, so Dean takes the entire bottle to the couch and hits play on their DVD player, resuming the Doctor Who season from last night. The sight of The Doctor and Rose being cute together just makes Dean even more morose, so he screws off the bottle cap and starts chugging.

Hours later, he's curled up on couch, Sam squeezed into the remaining space between the couch's arm and Dean's bare feet. Dean's well and truly past tipsy, his stomach gurgling unhappily. His headache's worse, too, but at least all of his insecurities are taking a time out.

That is, of course, when Sam isn't trying to get him to talk about his feelings every two seconds. "If you're so hung up on Cas, why don't you just tell him how you feel?"

Dean flushes, irritation gathering. "Shuddup," he slurs, banging the near-empty bottle against the floor. "I ain't askin' for your input."

"Of course you're not!" Sam exclaims. "It's because I'm reasonable, and you're, just—you're just _stupid_ , damn it. You're such an idiot, Dean!"

"Tell me somethin' I dunno," Dean grumbles, leaning back and splashing more liquor down his throat, nearly gagging on it. Sam scoffs but shuts his mouth after that, the two of them giving each other the cold shoulder while The Doctor regenerates.

Sleep must overtake him at some point. The next time he opens his eyes it's significantly darker, the only light source coming from the fireplace and the kitchen where Sam's clanking pots and pans about while moodily preparing dinner.

He stirs again even later, and the kitchen light is now off, Sam having retired for the evening. Dean loses himself in the fireplace, watching the dancing flames until he drifts back off again.

The third time he awakens, it's to the feel of a calloused hand gently pressed against his face, a thumb running up and down his cheekbone. It hurts to open his eyes but he does so, blinking them blearily until Cas' concerned face materialises in front of him.

Cas is crouched on the floor, wrapped up in two sweaters and a vibrant red scarf. He's kneeling over Dean, their faces mere millimetres apart. Dean stares at him, speechless. There'd been so much anger bottled up in him all day, yet now that Cas has returned to him, he just has no idea how to feel. Neither joy nor sadness pervades his senses, so he opts to just lean in closer to Cas' hand, because the touch is very much welcome.

"You've been drinking," Cas comments, pain shining in his stupidly blue eyes. Cas has become all too familiar with Dean's alcohol habits: beer is good, spirits is a big, big bad.

Dean nods slightly. "Yeah," he rasps. God, he needs some water.

"That bottle was almost completely full."

"You left me," Dean says, the alcohol pushing honesty onto his tongue.

Cas agonises over that response; it's clear in the lines that form across his face. "I said I'd be back," he says, voice uneven and soft.

Dean closes his eyes, sighing. "I didn't believe you."

He doesn't get a response to that. Instead, Cas leans in closer, pressing their foreheads together, his hand slipping to the back of Dean's head. He's never been this close to Cas before. He can actually _feel_ Cas' breath against his lips, and wonders if he should finally surge forward and push their mouths together. Almost immediately, however, he shoves that idea away — if he's gonna do that, it's gonna be when he's sober, for one, and two, his entire body won't hurt so goddamn much.

Mere minutes past but it feels like at least an hour. The fire has devoured most of the wood, leaving dying embers and ash in its wake. Their proximity calms him in a way he's never really been calmed before. The warmth of Cas' face and the tenderness in his hands turns him into a pathetic ball of goo, all lax and peaceful. When Cas finally pulls away, there's a gentle expression in eyes that causes something cheerful to bloom in the hollow places he's been bearing all day.

That's when he sees it, though: snow in Cas' hair, a shining contrast against his dark locks.

Dean's getting his white Christmas after all.


	21. December 21

By morning, the ground outside is blanketed in snow. Dean aches for his Impala, which is completely coated in ice, and trots outside to help her the moment he's finished his breakfast.

He's hurting from yesterday — his stomach churns, his head throbs, and his chest aches from the emotional beating it took. Cas is still in bed, clearly exhausted from whatever-the-fuck he got up to on his grand old adventure, so at least Dean can avoid him for a little while longer. An opportunity to gather his thoughts is always welcome.

Shovelling snow off the Impala is a good way to stay preoccupied and the exertion keeps his body warm, a shield against the finger-numbing cold. At least he scrounged up a pair of gloves before he came out here, because even with the water resistant mesh, it's still pretty damn chilly.

Sam joins him by the car about ten minutes later, a shovel in hand and beanie on his head. Together they shovel snow out of the way, clearing a path to the garage for the Impala to take shelter in. The garage is still packed with an assortment of junk that they need to organise, and they have to do that first so that there's enough room to fit the car in properly. Dean realises they probably should have done this weeks ago, but it slipped his mind. Too busy being merry or whatever.

"So, Sam says, standing up and using the shovel to lean on for support. "Cas is home."

"Yeah," Dean grunts, flinging more snow over his shoulder. "Came home late last night."

"Uh-huh. Did he happen to mention where he'd been?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nope, nothing."

"Really? I thought that would've been the first thing you asked him about."

Dean levels a stare at his brother, grouchy. "I was pretty damn out of it when he came home. I was just..." He shrugs, trying to be casual. "Just relieved he was back, to be honest. But," he continues, frown setting across his face, "I'm pretty freakin' pissed at him still. If he's got excuses, I'm not interested in hearing them."

Sam puts a hand on his hip. "Dean—"

" _No_ , Sam," Dean says, leaving no room for argument. "His note-leaving skills are goddamn lousy, okay? If he wants to explain himself, he's gotta apologise first."

There's an argument on the tip of Sam's tongue, but he swallows it down at the look Dean gives him. "Yeah," he exhales, scratching his head through his beanie. "Yeah, I agree."

Damn _right_ he agrees. Dean harrumphs, then resumes his digging.

Eventually they manage to tuck the Impala away inside the garage, safe from the snow. Dean glares at the bicycle leaning against the wall, its betrayal fresh in his mind. The wheels still have fresh dirt pressed into their grooves.

The sound of a car growls in the distance. He and Sam step out of the garage and discover Charlie's familiar yellow car tearing up the driveway, a great big trailer hooked onto the back of it.

Dean beams at the sight, not only pleased to see her again but also because carting the piano back to their home shouldn't be much of an issue anymore. She springs out of her car, greets them with her usual, "'Sup, bitches?" and embraces them both.

Everything's going swimmingly until they lead her through the front door. At the dining table, Cas perches on one of the chairs, spooning muesli into his mouth. When he and Dean make eye contact, it's like an unpleasant chill descends upon the room, so thick that Charlie takes a step back and says, "Whoa, trouble in paradise?"

"Nope," Dean mutters, attempting to ignore Cas' presence entirely. "Everything's fine. No issues whatsoever."

"Dean," Cas starts, but Dean holds a hand up to silence him.

"Save it, Cas." Dean directs his sentence at the couch. "We'll talk later. For now, you're in time out."

Cas can try and slip back into Dean's good graces with tender forehead touches and cheek stroking, but Dean's stronger than that. He wants an actual apology and a promise to not pull shit like that again. Maybe a foot rub, too. He's a little sore from all of that snow-shovelling.

Dean, Sam and Charlie find their places around the lounges. Awkwardly, Cas gathers up his half-finished cereal and retreats to his room, closing the door loudly behind him. Dean snorts and Charlie whistles. "Wow," she comments. "You two bicker like an old married couple, you know that?"

Dean doesn't dignify that with a response.

Towards the end of the day, however, he does wind up spilling the beans to Charlie. It's when they step outside for a moment, Charlie leading him out there with the excuse of requiring fresh air. He leaves out the important details, like how he got drunk until he was sloppy and a little teary-eyed, but he conveys the overall sense of douchebaggery and betrayal rather effectively. At the end of his tale, Dean rubs the back of his head and starts pacing, enabling Charlie to contemplate the situation. A third party can be useful sometimes, so he doesn't totally regret telling her. What he _does_  regret is tossing out Cas' note. Maybe then she'd see _just_ how much of an asshole Cas can be.

"Dean."

He spins on his heel, facing her with a terribly morose expression. "Charlie?"

She sucks in a deep breath, her cheeks puffing out before she releases it. She rolls her shoulders back and lifts her chin with determination. "Of course he was going to come back."

"You don't know that," Dean mutters, wishing he didn't sound so bitter.

"Yes, I do. From what I've heard, he may not stick around for long, but that dude's loyal," she says firmly. "He will always come back to you."

"Or, maybe he won't," Dean retorts, moving back and forth along the porch. "Maybe he'll want a place to himself. Maybe he'll settle and down and—and find a girl and have relationships with people that don't carry a truckload of baggage." Dean scrubs his face, restless. "There's nothing here for him, 'cept security or whatever."

"Dean Winchester, you are so deluded," she sighs in mock exaggeration. "Have you ever actually had a proper conversation with him? Within about ten seconds you can tell that he's, like, grossly in love with you." Dean's steps falter at that. "Trust me — he's found a home with you. Sam as well. He wouldn't just give that up." She pauses, raking her gaze up and down his face, but he can't look at her. Then, cautiously, "Although, if you're that worried about him meeting a girl, I'd try and call dibs on that ass while you have the chance."

At first, there's silence. Then, inexplicably, Dean begins to smile. It's small and hesitant but it slowly spreads, pushing up his cheeks until it forces out a chuckle. Charlie seems relieved by his reaction and grins herself, but concern lingers in her eyes.

A moment later, he wraps her up in his arms. He presses his lips to the crown of her head.

"Thanks, Charlie," he mumbles against her hair.

"You are totally welcome."


	22. December 22

There's a new aura floating around the home — something warmer, a strange contrast to the fresh snow outside. Dean notices it when he leaves his bedroom, taking in the grey light shining through the frosty windows. Slowly, it seeps into his skin, filling his lungs, and when he exhales, all of his lingering anger and sadness seems to just drift away, leaving him blissfully lighter.

From his position on the couch, Cas hunches over and slips on his work shoes. The sight stirs something in Dean, a pleasant little tingle that makes his eyes soften. He'd fixed Cas with hardened looks all day yesterday, but for whatever reason, that look just doesn't fit Dean today.

Cas seems smaller, a little more fragile than usual. Of course, physically, Cas is as strong and bulky as Dean himself, but there's a peculiar delicacy to the way he ties his shoes. It's all very human; frighteningly so.

His hair is freshly washed, damp and dripping onto the timber floors. If Dean were close enough, he'd be able to smell Cas' favourite fruity shampoo. He's been using it for years now, and Dean's come to recognise that scent, as it's the same smell that permeates Cas' clothes. Once, Dean plucked one of Cas' shirts from the laundry hamper and pressed the cotton to his face, breathing in peaches and tangerines. He's been careful not to repeat that mistake, as it made him yearn a little too much for what he can't have.

 _But_ , Dean muses, _what if?_ Maybe he _can_ have that. Maybe the tension between he and Cas is a result of more than vague notes and spontaneous bike trips. It's more like a total conglomeration of all the years they've stood by each other, gazing at each other with reverence and never explaining the emotions that lay concealed within them; the truth never to pass through their trembling lips.

There's confusion written into Cas' face now, his eyes wide and expansive. What kind of emotion, exactly, is Dean wearing at the moment? Whatever it is, he seems to be unravelling, albeit quietly.

"Dean, I..." Cas seems to think better of it, closing his mouth and replacing that sentence with something safer. "Would you, uh, prefer if Sam takes me to work today? I can go wake him."

Dean shakes his head. "Don't be stupid, Cas. I'm up. Let's get going, huh?"

So they pile into the Impala, just the two of them. There's a decent tyre track to get down the driveway, courtesy of Charlie leaving last night. Apparently she's got another date in Minnesota, the one with Elizabeth having been a bit of a bust. She's spending Christmas up there, having made plans with an old friend she went to college with. She intends to return here for New Years, though, so at least they've got that to look forward to.

Five minutes down the road, Cas starts talking again. "Dean, I'm sorry."

"No, look, it's—it's fine," Dean tells him, trying to focus on the slippery road while also giving Cas enough eye contact to let him know he's genuine. "I've been carrying on a fair bit as well. Didn't really give you a chance to explain yourself, did I? So, uh. I'm sorry, too." He takes a breath, readjusting his grip along the steering wheel. "But you really gotta work on your note-writing skills, man. Don't be afraid of the finer details, okay?"

Cas laughs quietly. "I will endeavour to improve," he promises.

Silence reigns between them, although it's a pleasant one. It's a relief to be at ease with one another again. "Where _did_ you go, anyway?" Dean asks eventually.

"Well," Cas starts, a smile curling up his cheeks. "I visited soup kitchens and offered my services there. I donated some clothes and food. I may have, um," he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, "visited a retirement village. And led them through prayer."

Dean nods, slowly. "Did you adopt a puppy as well?"

Cas snorts. "No, although I do enjoy dogs." Dean stores that information away. Perhaps a gift for next Christmas? "I just _needed_ to help others. We've been indulging in festivities this year and I felt a little..." He shrugs. "Unworthy, I suppose is the word for it."

And yeah, Dean knows that feeling all too well. He's been trying to reconcile it himself, actually: getting a proper, pain-free Christmas with his family while there are so many people in the world who are far more deserving than he'll ever be. People out there in broken homes, who are stricken by poverty or sickness, under the roofs of abusive relatives or tossed out onto the streets, homeless and alone. Then there's Dean, scamming banks and casually commandeering vacant households, with enough money to afford a goddamn piano. And hey, Dean didn't have the best Christmases growing up, but he _did_ have Sammy. Now he's got Sam, an ex-angel and a decorated home all for themselves. It's funny how the world works. He'd call it unfair if he wasn't the one benefiting from it for once in his life.

They park outside the Gas-n-Sip, the Impala still purring. However, Cas doesn't move, just sitting and staring at the dashboard. Dean watches him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

Cas looks up. "I've been talking to Sam. Charlie, too, when she was here." Cas folds his hands into his lap, thumbs brushing against one another.  "I—I expressed to them my, ah, negativity these recent months. I'm sure you've noticed it." Dean has, recalling Cas' vacant expressions while sipping cold tea on the porch. "I've been unhappy. Not because of you," he clarifies, honesty shining in his bright eyes. Dean exhales, a knot in his chest loosening. "Sometimes I just get...restless, I think. Dissatisfied. Bored, even." He shrugs again. "Sam refers to it as depression, but I don't know."

Dean nods along, encouraging Cas to continue. "Anyway, they both suggested I needed to _do_ things. If I can keep myself busy, I won't have as much time to..." he gesticulates with his hands, trying to figure out the right word to use.

"To brood?" Dean offers. "I know a lot about brooding."

Cas smiles. "Yes, something like that. Keeping busy keeps the, uh, uglier thoughts away. And, well, I've always enjoyed helping others, and I was hit with the inspiration to get out there and _do something,_ so I just..." He scratches his head. "I got on the bike and went to town. Did charity work, et cetera. It was like I was _possessed_ , Dean. I just had to get going. The note for you and Sam was an afterthought," he admits, bowing his head. "I apologise."

"Nah, man, I get it." Dean nods, slapping his hands lightly against the wheel. "Why do you think I spend so much time cleaning the house, hm? Or working on the car or cooking or whatever." Cas stares at him, waiting. "Keeps the uglier thoughts away."

Cas nods slowly. "That's a relief."

"What is?"

Cas sighs, shoulders slumping. "I'm just, well. I am glad you can empathise, that's all." Cas smiles at him. "It's not just me."

"It's not a side effect of losing your Grace, dude," Dean grins. "It's all a part of the human experience, my friend. You gotta take the good _and_ the bad. It sucks, but ces't la vie and all that."

"Indeed." Cas' smile widens, quirking at one side of his mouth. "Thank you."

Cas steps out of the car, offering Dean a lingering stare before he leaves. There's gratitude in his eyes, along with something tender that makes Dean's heart leap. With a small wave, Cas trumps inside the gas station, and Dean remains parked outside for a few minutes longer, contemplative, before heading home.

When he returns almost six hours later, Cas is waiting for _him_ for once. He's not still puttering about the Gas-n-Sip, much to the exasperation of his manager. He slips inside the Impala the moment Dean arrives, a pleased expression on his face.

On the drive home, Dean feels the tips of Cas' fingers brush over the back of his hand. Dean's been resting his right hand on the gear stick, and now Cas is gently tugging it from its position. "May I?" Cas asks, voice just above a whisper.

Dean swallows. "Uh, yeah?" he replies, although he's not quite sure what's happening.

In response, Cas pulls Dean's hand into his lap, tangling it between both of his hands. Dean wrestles with himself to keep his eyes on the road. He can feel Cas' tentative, exploratory touches, soft and sweet across his palm and knuckles. He presses gently into the bends of his fingers, making small, circular movements. He wonders if Cas has thought about doing this for a while now; whether he's finally gathered the courage to follow through. Dean could never be so bold.

It's kind of like a massage, but not really. More of a caress, actually. Dean sure as hell isn't complaining, though, and he preens at the little hum Cas makes when Dean knits their fingers together.


	23. December 23

"Hey, I need you to help me move something."

In the doorway, Dean leans against the wood, watching Cas expectantly. Cas, meanwhile, is lounging on his bed with Sam's iPad in his hand, probably researching a new soup recipe or browsing the iBook app. Cas squints at him, resting the iPad against his chest for the moment. "Move something?" he echoes.

"Yeah, I'm rearranging the living room." They're picking up Cas' piano today. Sam's busy chaining the trailer to the back of the Impala, and Dean's clearing a spot for its new resident. Cas' room is way too tiny for it, but the lounge room's got ample space, just need to do some furniture shuffling. "That big-ass bookcase is going in Sam's bedroom."

"What for?" Cas says, sitting up. He tilts his head. "Is there a reason it can't stay in the lounge room?"

"Well, that part's a surprise," Dean teases, and Cas perks up at that. "No more questions, Cas. You said you wanted to keep busy, right? Well, here's me giving you something to do, so come on."

Curiosity piqued, Cas pulls himself to his feet and follows Dean dutifully. As they pass by the front door, Cas stops to observe Sam out near the car, who's scratching his head and looking thoroughly unimpressed with the Impala's towbar. "What's going on?" Cas asks suspiciously.

Dean huffs. "What did I just say about questions, Cas? Now c'mon, get your ass over here."

The only reason it takes them so long to move the bookcase is due to the overwhelming number of books piled up on the shelves. Seriously, they've got maps to encyclopaedias to the Harry Potter collection (while all of their old spellbooks and their Dad's diary lie buried in a storage container within Dean's closet). They need to clear their ever-expanding book collection first, the process slowed due to Cas pedantically placing them into neat little stacks on the floor. Only then do they heave the bookcase off the ground and carefully carry it into Sam's bedroom, successfully planting it next to his wardrobe. The two of them return to the lounge room and Dean fetches the vacuum, sucking the dust from the floor while Cas carts all of the books into Sam's room to be arranged on the bookcase again.

Afterwards, Sam triumphantly marches through the front door. "I did it," he announces. "Got that damn trailer on."

"Nice," Dean grins, giving him the thumbs up.

"What's the trailer for?" Cas questions, eyes narrowing. "What's happening here?"

"It's a surprise," Sam tells him, which seems to annoy Cas considerably. Cas is an impatient little shit sometimes. "Tell you what — we're going to go get this mysterious surprise now. How 'bout you come with us, Cas?"

Cas agrees to that, and when they make their way to the Impala, he bounds into the backseat with child-like enthusiasm. Dean's Christmas spirit brightens considerably at his antics, having faded a little over the past few days. They make their steady way to Agatha's place, and Dean can't stop grinning at Cas' overflowing curiosity.

Agatha's home looms into view, still as off-putting as it was the last time. Cas is thoroughly confused now, stepping out of the car and looking around wildly. "Where are we?"

"No more questions," Dean reprimands, beckoning him. "Less yapping, more following."

Cas walks behind them while Dean and Sam walk in step with one another. "He's gonna flip," Sam murmurs, a big smile on his face. Dean shushes him quickly when he sees the stare Cas is giving them.

They rap on the door and Agatha appears soon after, eyes shifting between all three of their faces. "Good to see you again, boys."

"Good to see you too, Agatha" Sam replies, grinning.

"We've come to collect this guy's—" he gestures to Cas with his thumb "—Christmas present."

"Oh, I see," she giggles, smiling indulgently at them. Cas squints harder, still baffled by the situation. "Come through, then. I'll show it to you."

She leads them down the familiar hallway and through her living room, and Dean notices that a few more decorations have popped up along the tables and shelves. There are stockings hang off the fireplace now as well. "My nieces are coming to visit," she explains, waving a hand at the stockings. "They're still young, you know? Santa will be paying them a visit soon."

A quiet sadness fills Dean at those words; he never did get the chance to believe in Santa Clause while growing up. The realest encounter he's had with a Santa-like creature had been those blood-thirsty pagan gods he and Sam had taken down all those years ago. Not the most merry experience of his career.

The piano's shape is but a large blur in the darkness of the side room. The moment Agatha flicks the lights on, however, Cas' eyes widen considerably, taking it all in. Dean and Sam take a step back to allow Cas to pass, and he approaches the piano with reverence, laying a hand against its polished timber.

Quiet fills the room, an almost preternatural presence. Cas trails his fingers across the keys, delighting in the sounds they make. Despite having his back towards them, Dean can tell what kind of emotions are somersaulting through Cas. It's clear from the slight tremble in his shoulders; the way his head bobs when he gulps around a lump in his throat.

"This is for me," he states, voice hoarse.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, taking a step forward. "If you like it, I mean."

"It's beautiful," Cas murmurs, still fascinated by the way his fingers make shapes across the keys, his head bowing as if to listen more attentively to the music. "But..."

He turns around, and Dean has never witnessed Cas shed a single tear in the entirety of his existence, but his eyes are definitely looking a bit shimmery now. Cas breathes in deep before continuing, "This must be rather expensive."

"Nah," Dean reassures him with a wink. "Don't even worry about the price tag, Cas. Sammy and I are taking care of it."

"No," Cas protests weakly. "No, this really is too much. I can't accept this."

"Oh, I must insist!" Agatha pipes up from her position in the corner. She walks over to him and takes one of his hands between the two of hers, in a similar way to how Cas grasped Dean's hand yesterday, only the sentiment behind it is miles different. "It's been sitting here collecting dust for a very long time, dear." She smiles sweetly. "I would be all the better for it if you would take if off my hands. Seeing her sitting here is just terribly sad, I'm afraid. I'd much rather her go to a new home and be loved again."

"Well..." Cas is conflicted, eyes darting back and forth between Agatha and the piano. "If—if it's alright—"

"'Course it is," Sam says, moving to clap a hand on Cas' shoulder. He gives it a gentle squeeze. "If you're happy with it, we'll take it right now. That's what the trailer's for."

Cas sighs, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Dean's chest aches, a part of him wishing he could tend to Cas' tears. Someday soon, perhaps. "Thank you. Both of you," he mumbles, gazing pointedly at Dean.

He and Cas remain by the piano for a couple of minutes while Sam and Agatha sort out the money in her living room. Dean licks his lips, watching Cas with soft eyes as he sweeps his hand across the piano once more, slowly and tenderly.

"Dean," Cas says, voice barely louder than a whisper. "You shouldn't have done this."

Dean laughs in disbelief. "Cas, I know this may be a bit of a shock, buddy, but sometimes you _do_ deserve good things once in a while." Cas' head whips up at those words, something broken in his eyes. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, okay?"

Cas snorts, that phrase being one of the many colloquialisms he has picked up on. "A little ironic, coming from you," he retorts.

"I guess," Dean huffs, but he's beaming at Cas, even when an actual tear spills over and slithers down Cas' cheek. "Happy Christmas, Cas."

Cas doesn't reply, instead reaching into his pocket and procuring a tissue.


	24. December 24

The sun is sinking deeper and deeper, bathing the pearly white ground in stunning oranges and reds. Dean observes this all from the comfort of the couch, cradling a beer and staring out through the large windows. In the corner of his vision, he can see Cas' baby grand, looking stunning in its position by the tree. Cas had stayed up late yesterday learning new melodies, and Dean can still hear the soft sounds in his head that had lulled him to sleep last night.

He's never had a Christmas Eve quite like this; so picturesque. He takes a long sip and then rests the bottle on his knee, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

"So, how do I look?"  
  
He cocks his head towards his brother, who's standing by the freshly lit fireplace, appearing stiff and fidgety. He's all dressed up for his date with Eleanor, his clothes ironed and not a trace of plaid in sight.  
  
Dean appraises him with a mock-critical eye, pursing his lips. "Scrap the whole thing, dude. You're a fashion disaster."  
  
The expression Sam gives him is priceless, so much so that Dean cackles. Sam rolls his eyes. "Dude, I'm nervous, okay? Don't be a dick," he grumbles.  
  
"Hey, c'mon," Dean placates, strolling over to Sam and bumping his shoulder with his fist. "Don't worry so much." He looks him up and down, smiling. "Looking good. You got nothing to worry about. Just make sure you treat her well, y'hear me? Hold the door for her, make her feel special."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you."  
  
Dean stares at Sam, warm pride bubbling in his chest. Carefully, he tucks away any and all kinds of jealousy that tries to show itself. Sam is his _own_ person, and Sam will always love Dean even if he finds love in other places. And truly, Dean _wants_ Sam to enjoy his date, to maybe discover a meaningful relationship with Eleanor, but he will always struggle to keep his protective instincts in check. It's been he and Sam against the world for an incredibly long time, after all.

A soft breath passes through Dean's lips, and he lifts his head to meet his brother eye-to-eye. "What are you gonna tell her?"

Sam scratches his head. "You mean...about our past?" Dean nods. "Nothing, honestly. It's behind us now." At Dean's sceptical eyebrow lift, Sam shrugs. "I don't know, I just, well. I just don't think she needs to know. We're moving forward and all. I figure that if I'm having a rough day, you know, _dealing_ with what's happened, I can come to you. Or Cas, or Charlie. Garth, even," he chuckles.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticks quietly, filling in the silence between them. Dean really struggles to understand that logic, 'cause for him, his past is tied up _so heavily_ in his identity; moulded him into the person he is today. Sam too, obviously, but he's far more capable at keeping their secrets hidden away than Dean's ever been. Dean just can't fathom hiding such a huge chunk of your life from the person you love. Even with Lisa, she at least knew  _some_ of Dean's issues.

With a nod, Dean clears his throat, then grins. "Go get 'em, tiger."

Sam ducks his head, mumbles, "Shut up," and heads out. The Impala quickly vanishes into the rapidly expanding night.

For the rest of the evening, Dean and Cas find themselves on the couch. The soup machine's been getting a steady work out throughout the day, Cas brewing up enough pumpkin soup for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Cas adds dollops of sour cream to their soup and toasts foccacia in the grill, and Dean's pleasantly surprised when he's informed that Cas didn't set anything on fire for once. Every surface has been wiped down, too, so Dean won't be wrestling any thick grease stains out of their cookware like usual.

Much to Dean's chagrin, Cas insists that they watch Love Actually, which is a viewership that Dean was definitely _not_ expecting to be a part of this evening. He _does_ enjoy elbowing Cas in the side whenever the porn scenes come on, if only because Cas can't stop staring at all of the nudity. He gets hilariously flustered when Dean draws attention to his gawking.

Admittedly, Dean enjoys the movie to an embarrassing degree, singing along when Joanna belts out a truly incredible rendition of All I Want For Christmas. Cas observes Dean with quiet amusement, but Dean ignores him. He'll blame it on the beer he's been sipping all night, despite being almost entirely sober. All he wants it to get comfortable and sing Christmas songs. He's feeling _festive_ , damn it.

Eventually, his thoughts turn to Sam. It's been a couple of hours now so the date must be going pretty well. Dean hopes it is. Sam's never had the most fortunate love life, so it's about time karma gave him a break for once.

As for Dean, well, his love life has been at a standstill for a while now. He's been meaning to rectify that, actually, but been far too anxious to do so. It occurred to him a while ago that Cas has _turned out to be the fucking love of his life_ , to put it as eloquently as Billy Mack. And, well, shouldn't he _act_ on that? Do _something_ with those feelings?

See, he's been so terrified that Cas might reject him that he's been shoving any semblance of feelings down  — for _years_ , in fact. At the end of the day, he wants Cas by his side, whether it be as a partner or otherwise, and if telling him the truth sends Cas away in disgust, then Dean's just _not_ interested in going down that route.

Recent actions, however, have enabled him to view things from a new, refreshing perspective. It's becoming clear to him, in fact, that there is a chance that Cas might actually reciprocate, in which case, why the _fuck_ are they still dancing around this?

"Oh, I almost forgot," Cas says suddenly, his voice breaking through Dean's musings and causing him to almost leap off his seat in shock. "I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" Dean repeats, blinking. "Like a Christmas present?"

"Yes, I..." Cas smiles awkwardly. "When I went into town by myself, I was not just performing charitable work. I also purchased gifts for you and Sam."

"Right," Dean says, nodding. "Okay, so, wrap 'em up and put them under the tree for tomorrow."

"I've already done that," Cas tells him, puffing out his chest in pride. "But I have a gift I'd like to give you tonight."

That makes Dean's heart rate speed up tremendously. "O-oh?" His cheeks grow hot. "What sorta gift, huh?" A lot of vivid, inappropriate thoughts dance around his head, many of which involve them both naked and writhing. Dean swallows.

Cas reaches to grab something beside the couch, pulling out a little gift bag covered in jolly Santas. He holds it out to Dean, smiling shyly. "Here. Merry Christmas."

 _Maybe it's a sex toy_ , his unhelpful mind supplies, and he has to bite his lip to keep himself from snorting. He takes Cas' gift, slips his hand into the bag, and procures a Rudolph mug. Its nose is so large and red that it juts out from the rest of the mug's smooth surface. _Happy Holidays!_ is printed in green and red font all around the base. Dean smirks, then lifts an eyebrow at Cas. "Rudolph, huh?"

Cas frowns, his pleased smile drooping. "You don't like it?"

Dean points at Cas' chest. "Matches that dorky sweater I bought you," Dean informs him.

Glancing down, Cas tugs at the sweater, peering at it intensely. "Oh. I did not realise." He looks up again. "That was not my intention," he swears.

Dean grins at him, and maybe it's the alcohol that's in him (although probably not), Dean says, "Aren't you just adorable?"

Having been distracted by his sweater again, Cas' head snaps up at those words. Dean's positively giddy at the light flush that decorates Cas' cheekbones. "You...think I'm adorable?"

They both stare at each other, Dean's throat closing up, his mouth suddenly dry. _Shit_ , he thinks, _is this the moment_? Is this when he should do it? Say something, dumbass. "Uh, yeah," he gulps. "Yeah, I do."

"Oh." Cas nods vaguely. "Good to know."

Dean shuffles closer as subtly as possible, except Cas picks up on the decreased distance between them, at least judging by the way he glances at Dean's lips. Dean takes in the entire image of Cas: his bright eyes, the orange glow from the fire against his skin, those obscenely pink lips, as well as the inarguable knowledge that he's a dude, complete with flat chest and peach fuzz.

He's completely irresistible, actually, so Dean takes the plunge and starts leaning in, his breath catching when Cas' eyelids fall closed.

The clock strikes ten when their mouths finally meet, the following chimes accompanied by a breathy little gasp. Dean's not sure which one of them makes that sound (himself, most likely) but he's disinclined to care because Cas is all pleasant softness and warmth, and he can feel the way Cas' lips pucker and move against his own, kissing him back, incredibly gentle. The beer-induced fog that's been hovering around his brain dissipates, leaving Dean free to focus entirely on the feel of Cas' mouth.

They break apart for barely a second before Dean dives back in, noses brushing against one another, clumsy and needy. Cas' palm travels up his arm, briefly holding onto his bicep before continuing further, finding a comfortable spot where jaw and neck meet. Dean sighs into his mouth, breaking apart to rest their foreheads together. Mug in hand, he reaches over to deposit it on the coffee table, but he turns back quickly at the desperate little sound Cas makes.

Cas surges forward then, lips open and eager, his hand travelling up to weave into Dean's hair. A groan escapes him, then Dean tugs Cas closer, practically hauling him onto his lap. There's hunger between them, and Dean's a little overwhelmed by the passion in Cas' kisses, the way he breathes heavily through his nose and whines when they break for air. Dean's incapable of denying him anything, not at this point, so he allows Cas to devour him; to be pressed further and further into the couch where he can't, and has no desire to, escape.

Swinging a leg up and around Dean's thighs, Cas properly sits in his lap now, both hands finding purchase in Dean's hair and neck. Dean exhales a pathetic noise, wrapping his arms around to grip at the Rudolph sweater, needing the support. His hips press up into Cas' subconsciously, which seems like a popular move, based on the gasp that flies out of his mouth.

They rub together for a few minutes, hips meeting again and again. Eventually, however, the heat seems to overwhelm them both, sweat forming on Dean's back and dampening his hair. Carefully, Dean breaks away, panting with his head lolling against the couch. His limbs are like noodles right now. He gives himself a moment to breathe, then meets Cas' gaze. His pupils are wide and dark, an intoxicating sight when contrasted with his pink cheeks and well-kissed lips.

Time seems to slow down. Cas lets his face fall into Dean's neck, nuzzling gently. The hands that were gripping Cas' back in desperation suddenly ease off, instead running calming circles along his spine. Cas seems to appreciate the sudden mood change, his body going lax against Dean, and Dean _swears_ he hears a purring sound creep out of Cas' throat.

An eternity later, Dean speaks. "Cas, are you with me?" he croaks, closing his eyes.

"Yes," he murmurs, kissing his neck for emphasis. "I am with you."


	25. December 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been quite a labour of love for me. I never realised how difficult daily writing could be, but overall, I'm glad I did this. It has been a great challenge and I feel that I have improved just that little bit more.
> 
> Sorry I couldn't get the final chapter up for Christmas. Hope you enjoy the rest of your holidays. :)

When Dean wakes up on Christmas morning, it's with an incredible amount of joy and excitement. A grin immediately spreads across his cheeks, because honest to god, there is nothing in the world that can get him down today.

It has shit all to do with it being Christmas, though. Rather, it's the warm body that's lying beside him and the mop of dark hair peeking out from beneath the sheets. Dean nestles in closer, breathing Cas' intoxicating scene and trailing a finger along his side. They're both in their pajamas, having not progressed much farther than kissing and groping the night before, but Dean's fine with that. More than fine, actually, 'cause he's got all the time in the world to lavish Cas' body now.

He finally fucking _did it_.

Cas groans at Dean's ticklish touches, curling in closer and snagging Dean's hand, halting it in its tracks. "Stop it."

Dean grins, Cas' hair brushing against his teeth. "Not a chance," he says cheekily.

Huffily, Cas pushes up onto his elbows, squinting down at Dean. Dean just keeps smiling back at him, rosy-cheeked. "I've been thinking..."

His heart does a nervous backflip, smile vanishing. "Ah, thinking? What about?"

Cas rubs the grit from his eyes, then ruffles up his hair, making the bedhead about a thousand times more prominent. "Adorable is _really_ not a word befitting of me," Cas declares. "I am far from cute."

Dean relaxes instantaneously, drawing Cas down to his chest and cuddling him close. "Naw, Cas. You're disgustingly cute. Ain't nothing in the world can change that."

Cas frowns into his ribcage. "Dean, I was a warrior before settling into all of this... _domesticity_. Warriors are by no means adorable."

"You are _so_ wrong, buddy," Dean laughs, his arms slipping down to wrap. Cas retaliates by covering his mouth with his own, humming his displeasure into his skin, but Dean's grinning so hard that his crow's feet form little spider web cracks around his eyes.

Out in the kitchen, the unmistakable whirl of a kettle goes off. Sam must be up and about, then. Sighing, Dean turns away from the kiss, only Cas reclaims his lips mere seconds later. "Hey, c'mon," Dean says, words muffled by Cas' glorious mouth. "We should get up."

It takes them at least another ten minutes to emerge from Dean's bedroom, straightening their clothes and trying to get their hair back under control. Together they amble into the kitchen, coming to a stop by the bench. Sam's whistling to himself, back turned to them, and flipping bacon and mixing up scrambled eggs like a pro.

"I take it the date went well?" Dean asks, eyebrow raised.

Sam pivots around to face them, and _damn_ he's looking pleased with himself. It's as if the sun is literally shining out of him, his eyes bright and his smile wide. "It did," Sam replies, cheeks pink. "Got another date for the thirtieth. She's going away to visit her relatives for Christmas, so..." He shrugs. "It's the day after she gets back. I'd call that a win."

Dean smirks. "Atta boy."

"Oh, by the way, look up," Sam says, tilting his head up indicatively.

Dean and Cas do so, and simultaneously they discover the sprig of mistletoe. Sam's last ditch attempt to get them together for Christmas, and they actually beat him to it. Dean snorts, "Dude, I told you not to buy any mistletoe."

"I didn't buy it," Sam lies, his lips quirking up. "It just... _sprouted_ from the roof, infused with all our holiday spirit."

"You're an idiot," Dean informs him.

Across from him, Cas has stopped looking at the mistletoe. He's staring at Dean, a question in his eyes. He glances at Sam and back again, and Dean nods, telling him silently, _yeah, it's fine._

"We should remove this before anyone else gets caught under it," Cas says sensibly, plucking the mistletoe down. It comes away easily, Sam appearing mildly put out by Cas' actions.

"You...know what mistletoe's for, Cas?" Sam asks, apparently oblivious to the burning bacon behind him.

"I've been alive a lot longer than both of you," Cas reminds them. "I'm not totally oblivious to your human customs." But his gaze returns to Dean then, and a gentle smile finds its way across his cheeks. "A parasitic plant has no power over me," he says quietly, and even with the mistletoe clutched between Cas' fingers, Cas kisses him anyway.

Dean kisses him back enthusiastically, smiling so hard it hurts. He thought that he'd be less okay with this, having Sam as a witness to his big gay romance. Now that it's _actually_ happening, he really just does not give a damn. 

This is his future now. It had always seemed like this impossible, far away dream: him, a home, and a family he loves more than anything. Christmasses will come 'round each and every year, and they'll be able to celebrate it in style, with pine trees and Cas' fruit cakes and Sam's ridiculous solar lights. They'll be together, and Sam might eventually move out, but he'll never be far. He can finally be with Cas in the way he's always wanted to, complete with bed sharing and occasional PDA.

These three brave souls been through Heaven, Hell and Purgatory, and now they'll deal with the holidays in the exact same fashion — that is, namely, together.

Dean snakes his arms around Cas, not quite willing to break their kiss just yet, and Sam, meanwhile, makes exaggerated retching sounds in the background. 

Oh, what a wonderful time of year.


End file.
